Lost Perspective 6 : DECK THE HALLS
by Bellegeste
Summary: An alternative sequel to Repercussions. It is Harry's first Christmas with Snape... But Draco, Neville and the Death Eaters ensure that the season is not as jolly as it might have been. A wild and whacky festive frolic, but ultimately heartrending.
1. A Christmas Invitation

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended. My stories are merely a tribute to JKR and the pleasure her books have given me over the past few years.

**Author's Note: Some of you may have been expecting _Lost Perspective IV (Post Mortem)_ to appear as the sequel to LP III (_Repercussions_). Yes, that would have been the logical way to do it. However, LP VI _(Deck the Halls) _is an alternative sequel… And as it is set at Christmas time, I thought it would be more seasonal to upload it now.**

**OK. '_Deck the Halls'_ follows on quite closely from _Repercussions_. (So we are still in a Severitus situation - Snape is Harry's father.) If you remember, _Repercussions_ took place at Hallowe'en, when Luna prompted Harry to make contact with Sirius by going through the Whispering Archway. This story offers an alternative to the traditional twelve days of Christmas, beginning on 14th December, and following the characters through until Christmas Day itself. There are some references back to earlier events in the LP series, but nothing that should stop you reading this if you haven't already read the rest. Obviously, it helps if you know who Braque, Quig etc are, but it's not crucial to the plot! Enjoy! Happy Christmas! Happy 2005!**

**DECK THE HALLS **

**CHAPTER 1: A CHRISTMAS INVITATION**

Saturday 14th December

"Christmas! This is going to be the worst Christmas ever," said Harry with a glum sigh, adding a sparky wand and an unrealistically tall, crooked, red, bobble-hat to the latest in a series of cartoon Santa doodles, which now filled the entire left-hand margin of his parchment.

"It will, if you don't finish that essay," muttered Hermione.

She unwound another foot of scroll, and settled down to write again, her concentration fully focussed, unavailable for distraction. _'Transfiguration versus Transubstantiation - discuss the differences, benefits and disadvantages of each method'_. She actually enjoyed this theoretical stuff; she even understood it. Harry stared morosely as the paragraphs emerged, fully-formed, well-argued, rationalised and_ neat _- annoyingly neat, not a blot in sight - from the busily scratching tip of her quill. _How does she do that?_ Frustrated, he flicked the feathered end of his eagle quill across his forehead, tickling, soothing, a delicate, winged muse stroking his brow with inspiration - if only! - noticing, too late, the negative splatter of inky snowballs which had appeared on the page and were melting generously into the parchment. Feeling uninspired and ignored, Harry began to sketch a reindeer in the opposite margin…

He kept shooting hopeful glances at Hermione, but she was once more engrossed. After a minute, Harry got up and crossed the tower to the window. Dejectedly he stared out at the stark winter landscape. If they wanted a white Christmas it would have to hurry up and snow. A sudden movement caught his eye.

"Hey, Hermione, come and look at this!"

"Hmm? Not now, Harry."

"But it's Ron and, er, Neville, I think. They've gone bonkers. Come and see!"

"What are they doing?" Hermione paused, mid-sentence, but stayed seated.

"They're sort of _leaping about _in the herb garden. Waving their arms. Dancing round in circles. Or stamping something to death. It's like a kind of _war dance_…"

"Ron and Neville?"

"Yes, hurry up!"

"Is Luna with them?" Hermione sounded like a bored GP, obliged to go through a list of banal and obvious questions.

"Luna? No, not that I can see. Why?" Harry didn't get the connection.

"Are they naked?" Hermione asked next.

"What?!!"

"Are they beating tom-toms, brandishing tomahawks or shrunken heads? Are they smeared in wode, quick-lime or any peculiar, Ravenclaw substitute for body-paint? Are they wearing exotic feather head-dresses with chicken bones stuck up their nostrils?"

"What are you on about?"

"Really, Harry! It just sounds like Luna's conned them into performing one of her weird tribal rituals. It's probably some symbolic, pagan rite to appease the Vegetable Spirits in case we eat too many Brussels Sprouts at Christmas. Or maybe it's an ancient fertility dance - I wouldn't put it past her to sacrifice a few male virgins to Ceres or Gaea."

With a disparaging sniff Hermione bent over her essay again.

"You don't like Luna much, do you?"

She didn't answer. Harry peered through the gloom to observe the ritual slaughter of his classmates by the High Priestess of Ravenclaw, but the herb garden was deserted. Ron and Neville had disappeared.

Hermione was now scanning through the reams of her completed essay, her lips pursed in a thoughtful moue which might have been mistaken for a pout, but for the glow of intellectual complacency that warmed her face with an almost maternal satisfaction.

"There! That's finished. McGonagall'd better like it, or I'll …"

"What? Spell her with _Petrificus_ and force her to listen while you read the blessed thing out loud? Or were you going to frame it?" With deadlines looming, Harry was apt to be prickly.

"Don't take it out on me, just because I've done my homework and you haven't." Finally Hermione looked up, her face clouding with disapproval at the sight of his scroll. "Oh, Harry, what sort of a mess do you call that? You're going to have to start all over again." Her wand, poised to erase the page of scribbles, arrested in mid-air. "Why've you drawn a dog with a tree coming out of its head? Oh, a reindeer is it? Sorry! What were you saying about Christmas?"

"I'm dreading it. Just me and Snape, alone? I'd almost rather be at the Dursleys'."

"You know you don't mean that, Harry. This is your first Christmas together, as a family - OK, it's a small family; just the two of you - but it'll be _special_. You'll have a great time." Even to herself, she didn't sound convincing.

"How? He's hardly full of seasonal goodwill, is he? Can you imagine him getting 'festive'? It'll be like having Christmas in a morgue."

"Stay here then. You've done that before." Hermione was as practical as ever. Harry thought about it. In the past, he had stayed at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays - any excuse to avoid going back to No.4 Privet Drive - but that excuse no longer applied. And besides, Ron wouldn't be staying behind - the Weasleys were planning a big family get-together: Bill and Charlie had both promised to put in an appearance, and even Percy had threatened to allocate them an hour or so of his precious, ministerial time in honour of the occasion. Fred and George would be in charge of the 'entertainment'…

Harry longed to be included in the cheery, chaotic bustle of the Weasleys' family celebrations. 'Home' Christmases, in his experience so far, demanded fanatical observance of Yuletide party etiquette and colour co-ordination, down to the last strand of tinsel. At Privet Drive the annual Christmas countdown had begun in earnest in October, planned to the last dainty, silver-plated spoonful of Sherry trifle, the miniature mince pies and campaign 'Turkey', each stage of manoeuvres being ticked off on Aunt Petunia's glossy checklist, culminating in Dudley's pre-dawn assault on the presents beneath the tree, followed by the militarily correct luncheon, perfect in every Delia detail, a showpiece of suburban seasonality.

Christmas with the Weasleys would be so different. Harry pictured it in his mind: an image of abundance and generosity, sharing, comfort - the archetypal family Christmas, gift-wrapped with love, with bows on. The embodiment of all the Christmases he had never had. Each time he thought about it the picture grew a little rosier, more homely and cosy, steeped in tradition, plump and swelling like rum-soaked raisins, bursting with goodness. There would be a house brimming with people and laughter; harassed, happy, busy, crazy, frantic, affectionate people; the kitchen would be warm and welcoming, heady with the rich, fruity steam of Mrs W's mulled wine and spicy pumpkin punch - there was always a bubbling vat on the go; interesting, unidentifiable, sniffable _things_ stewing in pots; jars of pickles and preserves and bottled fruit, cooling racks piled high with home-made pies and buns and scones, begging to be sampled; freshly baked bread; puddings bonneted in their muslin mob-caps, tied and ready for steaming; the enormous turkey, so huge that it took both Fred and George to lift it onto the platter, trussed for the oven, layered in bacon, stuffed to excess with traditional sage and onion at one end, pinky, sausage forcemeat at the other, with the chestnuts and chipolatas fighting for space in between; garden produce, newly picked or cut or dug, festooning the drainer, still muddy, waiting to be washed and scraped and boiled into English vegetable oblivion. There would be garlands and holly with berries, mistletoe strategically placed, paper-chains, cards, candles, a haphazard tree, twinkling with gloriously mismatched, multicoloured baubles… There would be bowls of nuts that you could dip into_ between meals_ – walnuts, brazils, almonds, hazelnuts – with Mr Weasley's real, Muggle nut-crackers which always exploded the shells into a zillion spiky shards; and precarious, orange pyramids of _uncounted_ Satsumas which you were allowed to eat without asking…

Harry would be gathered into the embrace of this endlessly kind, easy-going, good-natured family, and he would feel a part of something; he would feel that he was wanted.

And then there was the prospect of spending Christmas with Snape. Try as he might, Harry could not envisage it as anything other than a cheerless, hungry (and, in Harry's book, food played a significant part in Christmas celebrations) ordeal. 'Quality time' with his father never scored highly on pleasure, relaxation or even nutrition. It wasn't that Harry wanted to avoid being with Snape himself. It was the whole Christmas _thing_. It raised such unachievable expectations - he was bound to be disappointed. Even if Snape were to don a red robe and whiskers and fly round the estate distributing largesse and 'Ho-Ho-Ho-ing' - and Harry fervently hoped he would not - the jollity would be forced, unnatural. For all Harry knew, his father might not celebrate Christmas at all - Christianity did not, after all, sit comfortably with wizard belief and practice. Perhaps it would be business as usual at Snape Cottage on December 25th.

"I can't very well say I want to stay here," Harry answered Hermione, "because he'd think that was rude. He'd be bound to take it personally. I don't want to upset him."

"Really? It's never stopped you before," she commented tartly. She still hadn't forgiven him completely for his inconsiderate behaviour at Hallowe'en, when his thoughtless disappearance had strained his father to the uttermost limit of emotional endurance. Harry hadn't been there; he hadn't seen Snape suffering.

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione. That was weeks ago. I was wondering…" Harry adopted his most winsome, puppy-dog expression, and Hermione waited for the inevitable request, whatever it might be this time. "I was wondering if you might like to… or, that is to say, if you would think about, er…oh, never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Just spit it out, Harry!" she exclaimed. How did he propose to wheedle her into letting him borrow her Transfiguration essay this time?

"I was wondering if you'd think about spending Christmas with me. Me and Snape. For, um, Christmas. At Snape Cottage…"

"What?!!" That wasn't what she had been expecting at all.

The door of the Sixth form annexe crashed open to reveal Ron, red-faced, mud-stained and with large, dirty, wet rounds on both knees, spreading up his jeans. Trailing behind him, almost as grubby, was Neville Longbottom.

"Please… think about it," Harry whispered.

"Ha! Found you at last! Guess what?" Ron grinned at them, self-important with his news.

"God, Ron, you're filthy! If you've got to come here straight from your revolting tryst with the Mud Goddess, at least crack the dirt off first. Is a little '_Scourgify_' too much to ask? Am I being unreasonable? You're just making extra work for the house elves."

"Oooh, moody! Keep your hair on! You're worse than my Mum. Don't you want to hear what I've got to tell you?" Ron was deflated.

Hermione did, but she didn't want to give Ron the satisfaction of knowing that she was curious. Neville shuffled forward, apologising.

"We've been digging up Shark-Lily rhizomes for Professor Sprout," he explained. "They burrow down in cold weather, you know, dig themselves in to the sub-soil. How far down did we have to go to get those ones today, Ron, about three feet?"

"Easily! Three _yards_, more like!" Ron was not a man for detail.

"And then you have to tamp the soil back down again really hard," went on Neville seriously, "otherwise the roots reach up through the earth and grab your ankles. They can yank you right down underground."

"Tamping, eh?" murmured Harry, not sure whether to believe them or not. He eyed them curiously for tell-tale remnants of chicken feathers.

"Anyway, guess what?" Ron tried again, bursting with news.

Hermione turned deliberately to Neville,

"Shark-Lily? That's a new one on me…"

She knew Neville would be unable to resist her cue. He'd become quite passionate about Herbology - it was the one subject he had a real flair for - and it only took the merest hint of interest to launch him off into his favourite topic.

"_Lilium Sphyrnidium_. It's a variable hybrid of the genus – very dramatic looking indigo flowers in late summer. The name comes from 'Hammerhead' - like the shark, you know. I think it's to do with the appearance of the bulb, it has these sticky-out, hammer-shaped projections like the shark's head – the growing points are at each end, where the eyes would be… or it may be because, if you eat it raw, it gives you the most blinding, thumping headache. Sprout says it's essential to blanche the bulbs before using them in potions…"

"What do they do?" pressed Hermione, wickedly keeping half an eye on Ron, now apoplectic with impatience.

"They have soporific properties. Very potent. Madam Pomfrey uses them a lot in Sleeping Draughts; and Snape - well, Merlin knows what he uses stuff like that for…"

The thought of Snape reduced Neville to silence.

"Sorry, Ron, did you want to say something?" At last Hermione granted him an audience.

Stung, Ron was momentarily tempted not to bother. It wasn't as though his news was exactly earth-shattering, after all. But his natural ebullience won through.

"Guess what?" he said for the third time. He put a comradely arm round Neville's shoulders and paraded him forwards. "This budding botanical genius here - " Neville squirmed with embarrassment. "has been awarded a grant by some top-notch herbological honchos, to do a research project into, er, what was it, Nev? Something to do with plants, anyway."

" _'Cellular degradation, devolution and transmogrification of plant-based structures due to contamination of viral, magical, bacterial or parasitical origin'_," Neville quoted, quietly proud.

"Meaning?" Harry asked. Maybe the others understood this, but he was only taking subsidiary Herbology, and it all sounded very complicated.

"Plant problems. Hex-mould, blight, Jinxy-mildew, pests, Bundimun infestation… that sort of thing," admitted Neville. Suddenly the project didn't sound nearly so impressive. The others weren't sure whether to congratulate him or commiserate.

"That sounds really interesting. Well done, Neville! Professor Sprout must think you're a star," said Hermione kindly.

"Ah, but you haven't heard the best bit!" Ron couldn't restrain his glee, even at his friend's expense. "Because Nev'll be working with all sorts of insecticides and experimental fertilisers and stuff, Sprouty says he's got to do Potions again. She's persuaded Snape to let him join in with you lot in the NEWT class. AND he's got to do remedial Potions with Snape to catch up on what he's missed this term…"

Harry's ears pricked up. At last! Someone who really did need remedial potions. It was definitely time for commiseration.

"Private tuition with Snape!" Ron gloated.

Neville's expression became bleakly suicidal.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: A BIRD OF ILL OMEN – Draco receives an unusual message; Neville has problems with Potions; strange things begin to happen at Hogwarts…**


	2. A Bird of Ill Omen

**Author's note: Just tweaking a couple of details on this one that my eagle-eyed reviewers have brought to my attention. Thanks. btw, 'Bonxie' is a genuine Shetland name. (I just thought it was cute).**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 2: A BIRD OF ILL OMEN**

Sunday 15th December

With Christmas less than a fortnight away, the owl service was getting busy. The skies fluttered with best wishes, winging their way through the frosty dawn, gliding tawny whispers, gilded in the sunrise. Every morning the wide, stone window ledges of the Great Hall fluffed with speckled shapes, jostling to get through the open fanlight and deliver their greetings.

For the past month or more Professor Grubbly-Plank had been preparing for the owl invasion, stepping-up her breeding programme of rats, mice, moths and mokes, the timing carefully tailored to provide the Owlery with a constant supply of fresh maggots, 'pinkies' and 'fuzzies' to fuel the feathered messengers on their return flights home.

The atmosphere of end-of-term excitement was daily more apparent. Ripping open their cards and letters, reading their families' carefully elaborated plans for holiday travel or tactful hints for last-minute presents, the students were buzzing with happy anticipation.

x x x

"Well I never! A '_bonxie_'!" Professor Dumbledore looked up from his weekend porridge in surprise. His gaze followed the compact, brown bird in its headlong rush from ledge to table. Tracing the gull's erratic flight-path through the Hall, the old wizard's hand webbed the air, porridge spoon aloft, a drizzle of Highland Honey mirroring the bird's progress in a sticky trail from pot to dish and back across the table.

"A Doxy, did you say? Leave it to me, Albus. I'll nab the blighter!"

Professor Grubbly-Plank levered herself to her feet, her eyes darting from left to right, wand at the ready, searching for a glimpse of dark, hairy legs and shiny wings.

"No, no, Wilhelmina. Sit yourself down. A '_bonxie_'. No need for your expertise. I dare say you'd call it a Great Skua, but our Shetland friends in the north prefer a more affectionate term."

The gull was now circling the Hall at height, broad wings flashing white as it wheeled in tight arcs round the candle chandeliers. Its black eyes scanned the flock of upturned heads.

"In my parents' day," Dumbledore, finishing a mouthful of sweet, cold porridge, was saying to his breakfasting colleagues, "Great Skua were virtually extinct. Only a handful of breeding pairs were left, or so I understand. I believe their numbers have, er, rallied. Quite a while since I've seen one in these parts. Most unusual to find a trained one though. Or even semi-trained," he added, wincing, as the gull suddenly dived, hurtling towards the Slytherin benches. Like a sturdy, sepia meteorite it crashed onto the table in an explosion of broken crockery, aqua-planing through the scattered bowls and tea-cups on a sea of spilt milk and pumpkin juice, a spectacular sliding-tackle that ended in flapping pandemonium in front of Draco Malfoy.

Peering over his half-moon spectacles, Professor Dumbledore crooked a gnarled finger towards the flustered Skua with a gentle flicking motion in the direction of the window. The bird, suddenly calm once more, opened his stout, hooked bill, gave a single, low, barking cry, and took flight, soaring effortlessly out and away into the December morning.

Millicent Bulstrode let out a shrill shriek of disgust,

"There's guano in my grapefruit!"

"Ahem. The child should be thankful it wasn't an albatross," commented the headmaster mildly, for staff ears only, his eyes twinkling. "Perhaps, Wilhelmina, we should be adding fish to the Owlery menu from now on. Is that an omen, do you think, Sibyll?"

Professor Trelawney consulted the heavens, squinting through her cats' eye lenses and blinking rapidly, as though the mere tic of an eyelid was the one thing preventing her rolling eyeballs from dropping out of their sockets altogether.

"The Giant Skewer is indeed a bird of ill-omen," she intoned in a voice wringing with woe, "and the 13th - Friday 13th – truly an _ominous_ date. The signs, I fear, Headmaster, are not propitious…" She shook her head in lamentation.

"Well, Sibyll, it is fortunate for us that today is a Sunday, and that the 13th was, if I remember correctly, _last_ Friday…" Dumbledore smiled. At the far end of the table Remus choked.

With an indulgent wave of his wand the old wizard restored order to the shell-shocked Hall and turned back to his own breakfast, prodding the rubberised porridge with a sigh.

At the Slytherin table, Draco furtively slipped a small, tightly rolled scroll of cloth into his cloak pocket.

x x x

Monday 16th December

"Mr Longbottom!"

Life drained from Neville's round face. Confronted with Snape he became a mindless, stuttering zombie, clumsy, inarticulate and even more forgetful than usual.

"So, what did you have for breakfast, boy? Lovage and Scurvy-grass? Or is that befuddled gawp your natural expression? Been soaking your brain in _Shrinking Solution_?"

A dry, choked gargle escaped from Neville's throat. He gulped, floundered.

"Explain, if you would be so good, Mr Longbottom, why your _Wit Sharpening Potion _is that singularly unappealing shade of _liver_… Is Miss Granger's potion brown? No. Is Mr Malfoy's? **No**."

They faced each other, from opposite sides of the cauldron: Neville, shrinking back, fearful; Snape, intimidating, severe, making no allowances.

"As you are hardly renowned for your originality, Mr Longbottom, I must assume that this aberration is unintentional."

"Sorry, Sir. Yes… er, no… Um… What?"

"A mistake, boy! An error, blunder, fault, clanger, howler, inaccuracy, miscalculation… You have got it wrong **again**, haven't you, boy?" Smoothly sarcastic. _For Merlin's sake, Severus! Are you parodying yourself? No wonder the kinds mock you behind your back. Drop the pomposity, man, and teach the little shit!_

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Neville was trying his best, but he was so nervous that nothing seemed to go right. Even when he could have sworn that he had measured the ingredients perfectly and followed the instructions down to the last comma, his potion never turned out like everybody else's.

Snape ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Hadn't he been patient with this stupid child? Hadn't he allowed him to join the NEWT class even though his results were sub-standard? Hadn't he agreed to give up several evenings to help the boy catch up? Hadn't he allocated him far more than his deserved share of attention during lessons, monitoring his brewing, supervising his slicing and stirring? He couldn't spoon-feed the little chump! And the minute his back was turned, what did he do?

"We are working on this potion for _your_ benefit, boy. The least you could do is brew it correctly. What was the last ingredient you added?" Snape demanded. "Ginger root? Ground Scarab Beetle? Armadillo bile?"

Neville's mind went blank. Empty, void, vacant, clueless.

"I don't know, Sir."

"You don't _know_?" A hiss of incredulity.

The rest of the class held their breaths in silent sympathy. Things were not looking good for Neville. They could see the vein throbbing in Snape's temple, a sure sign that his patience was exhausted, an explosion imminent.

"Then remove it! Extract it; subtract it. There may still be time to salvage the remaining constituents. What are you waiting for? _Tempus fugit_!"

"But, Sir, how do I…?" Neville peered up at the Potions master helplessly.

The temptation to throttle the gormless child was overpowering. Snape clenched his fists and forced himself to take a step backwards. He tried to think of the boy as some weak, mentally deficient creature, who required special understanding. Euthanasia was all that sprang to mind.

"Dragon's blood! Get your wand out, boy. _Extraho novissimus_…" Snape prompted, feeling he deserved the Order of Merlin, at least, for self-restraint. Neville lifted his wand tentatively, but as he raised it above the cauldron, the Maple-wood glowed red-hot in his hand and he dropped it with a squeal. The wand slipped into the bubbling brown sludge…

Without thinking, Neville plunged his hand into the potion to grab his sinking wand. It had belonged to his mother, and he could not bear to lose it. He'd lost his father's wand that day in the Department of Mysteries when Dolohov had snapped it. He couldn't lose his mother's too - whatever would his gran say? He pulled the wand out of the cauldron with a whoop of triumph, his cry distorting into a howl of pain as his arm erupted into a blistering lava-field of scalded skin.

Snape reacted instantly.

"_Glaciescum protego_!"

A silvery bubble of soothing, neutralising, ice-cold liquid enveloped Neville's arm as far as the elbow. The rest of Neville froze too as he stood there petrified, blinking like a rabbit blinded by the glare of Snape's wrath.

"You stupid boy! What did you put in there - Bobotuber Pus?"

"I'll take him to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione volunteered, already shepherding her friend towards the door.

Snape nodded angrily, shocked that he had allowed the situation to slip out of his control. Potions accidents were not common, but the occasional foul-up was inevitable. Even so, there would be questions asked, incident report forms to fill-in. He should have known better than to tell the fool to use his wand - in the hands of a dunderhead like Longbottom, the combination of wand magic and Potion magic could be lethal. It could have been worse - Snape consoled himself with the thought. Longbottom might have exploded his cauldron and barbecued the entire class with on skewers of white-hot metal, splattering them with molten potion… The wretched boy had been back in his class for only a couple of days! He should never have let Sprout talk him into it.

Neville's wand lay on the floor where he had dropped it, forgotten, in a puddle of offal-coloured slime.

x x x

In the greenhouse

"_Lavender blue, dilly-dilly, lavender green_…"

Professor Sprout trilled busily to herself as she worked. For such a stumpy, short figure she had an incongruously clear, bell-like singing voice. Oh, what the deuce! Who was she trying to fool? It was _shrill_ and _squeaky_, she knew it, but here, at night in the deserted Greenhouse, with no one to listen, she could indulge her operatic fantasies and warble away to her heart's content. While the rest of her body appeared to have been constrained and moulded by the contours of a small barrel, her voice had escaped, stretching and elongating in compensation. It was the only part of her that was thin, and she was going to make the most of it.

"_Green grow the rushes, O! I'll sing you seven, O…"_

She set out trays of tiny pots, filling them with her own special blend of compost, sifted in the optimum ratio of loam to grit to peat and a trowel-full of _Magigrow_ for good measure. A Ladybird was crawling around the rim of one large, terracotta pot, a shiny, scarlet and black-spotted button, moving purposefully, completing meaningless circuits and then progressing on for another lap. As Sprout watched, the red carapace clicked apart and, in a spurt and fizz of invisible wings, the beetle was away - back to a burning nest? Sprout recited to herself:

"_Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home:  
Your house is on fire, your children are gone_…"

Now she took out her wand and ran it a few times through her wayward hair, dislodging a couple of dry leaves, scratching her head as she counted the rows of containers. Another two dozen should do it, she thought.

"_On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me_

_A partridge in a pear tree_…"

She always sang this one lustily - especially when she got to the 'five gold rings' - even if the words of some of the other verses eluded her, she could really let rip there. Nearly Christmas, eh? Her favourite time of year.

"_Deck the halls with boughs of holly…_

_'Tis the season to be jolly_…"

She loved the Yuletide, when the outside world - _her_ world, the _plant_ world - came alive inside the castle. With the halls and corridors swagged and festooned with evergreen, and the 'tang' of pine in the air, the endless cycle of growth and rebirth filled her with optimism and fresh hopes for the coming season. In the Greenhouse itself, the sultry, musky scent of Hyacinth evoked for Pomona Sprout the essence of Christmas. Not for her the grease-laden reek of roasting fowl, or the dyspeptic sweetness of Plum pudding, but the clean, herbal smell of chopped parsley:

"_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme_…" she hummed happily.

And the colours of Christmas! The bowls of Hyacinths on the sill thrust their dusty blue or pink rods through a curtain of Zygocactus, its sectioned, tapeworm stems heavy with dangling bells, aggressively red, challenging the blood-leaved Poinsettia for attention. Queening it above them, the Amarylis, proud, painted, high-class vamp of the flower kingdom, stood splendidly aloof on its single stem, vibrant, waxy, exotic. She loved them all.

Using the tip of her wand as a dibber, Professor Sprout pressed holes in the compost, the perfect depth and diameter to welcome the delicate new hair-roots. Pricked-out now, the little Sneezewort seedlings would just be in leaf and ready to harvest for Poppy to make _Pepper Up Potion_, in time for next term's crop of colds. With the blunt end she firmed the soil. Not quite the done thing, she appreciated, - the KOWS (Keep Our Wands Sacred) lobbyists would have a fit. Silly kows! She wiped the wand on the seat of her trousers, and slid it down inside her Wellington boot. She and her wand made a good team! Herbology didn't call for much in the way of clever magic, but that wand had served her faithfully, despite being used as a gardening tool. Over the years the Mulberry wood had aged and darkened - hadn't they all? They would grow old together.

"_Here we go round the Mulberry bush…_

_…On Christmas Day in the morning."_

It was _her_ song, a secret tribute to her wooden friend.

x x x

"_Silencio!_"

The spell cut her off in the second chorus. Professor Sprout had not heard him come in, and her dancing words tripped in her throat, falling silent. A '_Protego!_' was barely out of her mouth when his whirling curse caught it, linking elbows and whisking it off and away, carol and rhyme gyrating round and back and, finally, sealing the song on her lips.

"Outside!" He seized her by a sturdy arm and forced her into the darkness.

x x x

Draco swore under his breath as another pin bent. The cloth scroll insisted on curling up at the edges and he'd had the idea of tacking it onto a board - like a curing mole-skin - to keep it flat. He'd used his wand as a staple-gun before (that time he'd nailed Creevey's ear to the tree trunk), but today the pins simply wouldn't go in straight. Perhaps the cloth was impregnated with a preservative Charm that repelled tacks.

Apart from the pin problem, Draco was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He'd made a good start; his Dad would be proud of him.

When the Skua had first deposited the tiny, damp roll of material into his lap, Draco had no idea who it was from. He was not expecting his father to make contact. He had not thought it was possible to get a message out of Azkaban. Now he examined the 'note' anxiously. As the fabric dried, it was becoming increasingly creased, and the dark, mahogany lettering was fading. Draco barely recognised the cramped, scratchy handwriting as his father's; the angular, wavering strokes were so different from Lucius' customary bold penmanship. He had the sickening suspicion that it had been written with a sharpened fingernail, dipped in blood.

Draco knew he had to destroy the scroll, to obliterate any evidence, but he wanted to read it just one more time. It was the first news he had had of his father in six months. At least he now knew that Lucius was still alive and that the Dementors had not sucked out his soul; that he was rational and still capable of plotting revenge…

He had spent hours pondering his father's request. The three things he had asked him to do would not be easy - not without getting caught - and he didn't have much time, certainly not long enough to brew up Polyjuice or anything like that. It was already the last week of term. For ages he had been completely stumped, blundering though an evil maze of dead-ends and unfeasibly ruinous hypotheses. He had been lost for ideas. But then that hapless, Gryffindor twit, _Weevil Fatbottom,_ had materialised in Potions like the answer to a saboteur's prayer.

Since the _P'n'P_ incident, Snape had been stricter than everi. (Snape's inebriate loss of self-control in the Ravenclaw lesson at Hallowe'en had been dubbed by some malicious Slytherin as _'Snape: Pissed and Paranoid'_. This title, being far too long for everyday usage - and Snape's outburst was, for a considerable time, the subject of _daily_ discussion - had quickly been abbreviated to _P'n'P_. Even some non-Slytherins had found themselves using them term for convenience, though their motives were kinder - it saved them from actually having to voice more specific words such as 'humiliation' or 'breakdown'…).

Dumbledore had persuaded Snape to take a couple of days off, but after that brief, enforced leave, he had grimly returned to Hogwarts, sober and emotionally sutured. Defying ridicule, he had adopted an offensive stance to reassert his authority: discipline was henceforth more stringent, standards more demanding, his barbed tongue even more mercilessly vituperative. As the weeks went by, the past indignity was overshadowed by the far harsher reality of the present and, gradually, Snape's 'lapse' was relegated in the minds of the students to the status of apocrypha, Trelawney's predictions or wishful thinking.

A week ago, Draco would have said it was well nigh impossible to penetrate the defensive wards and burgle Snape's private rooms, but now, thanks to Longbottom, he had the germ of a plan. He reckoned he could have managed the 'disruption' and 'mayhem' parts of his father's request adequately enough on his own, but, unwittingly, Neville had played right into his hands on both counts. He was such a no-hoper, smirked Draco, such a tongue-tied drongo! But feed him a simple question about anything plant-related and he turned into a living encyclopaedia! Then again, gullible and naïve and with a memory like a Dugbog - the stupid sap was just _asking_ to be exploited. It had been child's play to 'borrow' his bag for five minutes while he was grubbing about in the greenhouse with the rest of the sad, herbal oiks, and make that strategic substitution, plus a touch of label swapping… He, Draco, would swap them back later, and no one would be any the wiser…

Draco ripped the note off the board, pins pinging, and looked at it for the last time. Crumpling the cloth into a ball he was about to place it on the floor when he stopped, and on impulse, lifted it to his face and sniffed. …salt, the smell of the sea, a fishy, sea-bird sourness… nothing familiar… Shrugging away disappointment, he dropped it to the floor and aimed his wand.

_"Incendio!"_

A spit of flame leaped out and waltzed in slow zig-zags down to ignite the crushed cotton. The note flared with a fiery chuckle, blackened, shrivelled and, it seemed to Draco as he watched the rising, smoky spirals, _whispered his name_.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME. The staff compare notes on the spate of magical problems affecting the school… Lupin finds Snape's predicament amusing… **

i Snape's outburst occurs in Repercussions. He was pretty much at the end of his tether there. It's significance here is that it led Snape to intensify his security measures, making it difficult for Draco to gain access to his office.


	3. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Author's note: Quite a short, light chapter here... But everything happens for a reason... It may not seem so yet, but I haven't gone soppy with the roses. Honest!**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 3: A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME **

Tuesday 17th December

In the Staffroom.

"Oh, roll on Christmas!" gasped Professor Lupin, slumping into the armchair and sprawling, legs akimbo, in an attitude of exhausted abandon. "Kids, eh! Why do we do this thankless job?"

"My sentiments precisely. I think we are all more than ready for a holiday. Those children! Am I imagining things, or are they worse than ever this year?"

Professor McGonagall carefully set down her tea-cup and saucer and permitted herself the indulgence of leaning back with her eyes momentarily closed. Mirroring her fatigue, her hair, normally rolled into a tight, obedient bun, had slipped and now nestled loosely in the nape of her neck.

Professor Trelawney also had her eyes clenched shut. Both pointing forefingers were extended to touch her temples, fingertips circling in tiny, tiny rotations. Under her breath she was moaning a low, repeated " 'Om'."

Not all the staff, however, were _in extremis_.

"Bad day, Minerva?" chortled Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Younger generation giving you a spot of bother? End of term-itis! High spirits, don't you know! Can't say as I've noticed the little darlings being any more obnoxious than usual. Send 'em for a quick dunk in the lake if they get too frisky. That'll sort the wizards from the wimps. And you, my dear, look like you could do with a drop of Grubbly-Wallop! It's my own special recipe you know: a capful of Poppy's _Pepper Up Potion_ in a tumbler of Sloe Gin. Sets me up for the day nicely. You should try it!"

"No offence, Wilhelmina, but - " Professor McGonagall began.

"None taken, I'm sure."

" - but babysitting Kneazles and Puffskeins does not require a high level of magical _finesse_. Transfiguration, on the other hand, - oh, I apologise. That was uncalled for. Forgive me. I have had a trying day - most trying."

"Not the Headless Clabbert spell again?" Professor Grubbly-Plank could be sympathetic, despite her bluff demeanour. "That one always turns my stomach, and I must have seen it a hundred times. Personally, I think the blighters get it wrong on purpose, just to wind us up. They love it really - all that shrieking and mock-hysterics. Any excuse!"

Professor McGonagall smiled thinly. She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. She looked weary and older than her seventy wizard years.

"No, nothing like that. Perhaps it's just me. But you know how demoralising it is when you think they have all achieved a certain level of competence, and then, for no particular reason, they start making silly mistakes? I feel as though I've been wasting my time. Even some of the older students - some of my best year 6s - have been making the most _elementary_ howlers. Their minds are simply not focussed on the task in hand. Everything that could possibly go wrong today has done so. Breakages, botched transfigurations, turkey feathers everywhere when there should have been paper party hats - oh, I don't know. Happy Hogmanay! I'll be glad when it's all over!"

"It's probably Peeves," mumbled Remus drowsily, getting a little too comfortable, settling down for a snooze. "His idea of the Spirit of Christmas. Anyway, as long as no one gets hurt, we can all take the odd practical joke in our stride."

"There's a time and a place for joking." Disapproval clipped the soft edges of McGonagall's Scottish accent.

"You're not suggesting that there's anything sinister going on? Oh, come on, Professor - so a few kids get a little carried away… Too much cake and too many trips to _Zonko's_, if you ask me. Year 3 played a great one on me this morning: we were deflecting a basic _Impedimenta_, and one of them turned my entire desk into a patch of marshland, complete with Marsh Marigolds and Bulrushes. Don't ask me how! Rather advanced magic for that age group, actually. Sounded a bit like the swamp the Weasley twins rustled up to 'amuse' Dolores Umbridge last year."

McGonagall rather relished that memory; some jokes had their uses.

"The kids are their own worst enemies," Lupin complained. "I was planning a kind of 'Dark Duel' as an end of term treat - under careful supervision, of course! - but it looks like I'm going to have to cancel it. They're all so hyped-up you don't know what might happen. I'll stick to theory for the last few days - boring, I know, but you can't take risks with DADA. I never thought I'd hear myself saying it, but perhaps Umbridge had a point… When you think of the havoc those twins wreaked…"

Lupin suddenly jerked upright, as though an awful idea had grabbed him by the collar and pulled.

"You don't suppose they're here, are they?" he asked. "Fred and George haven't flown up to visit Ron and Ginny? I wouldn't put it past those twins to set off a few seasonal jinxes to liven up the end of term."

"I sincerely hope **not**!" Professor McGonagall was too tetchy to be amused. "Much as I applaud their indisputable initiative, I can do without those two today. I've had quite enough: exploding chinaware, animals dancing about on their back legs with their ears on fire…" She sighed. "I dare say I should be grateful that it wasn't the other way round. But if I get one more two-headed tea-cup or legless Crup with a porcelain tail… and this from students who are old enough to know better… It's a simple enough transfiguration after all - Cup to Crup."

"Linguistically, maybe…" muttered Snape darkly. He was sitting at the table at the back of the room, poring over a sheet of figures, a deep frown creasing his brow. The others had all but forgotten he was in the room.

"You had a problem with the Longbottom boy yesterday, I hear, Snape," said Grubbly-Plank, addressing him stoutly. "The Spirit of Peeves-Weasley-Christmas taking its toll on Potions classes too, eh?"

Snape did not need reminding. He had returned to the dungeon that morning to find the flagstone floor glazed with a wet, sticky substance, a pool of clear, sweetly glistening liquid, with floating islands of grey-green, furry mould. In the centre of the syrupy puddle lay Neville's abandoned wand. Snape's _'Scourgify'_ had had no appreciable effect, and, while he was re-evaluating his cleansing charms, the entire First Year class had trooped silently to their desks, not daring to complain as the glue clutched and sucked at their shoes, treading the mess through the whole classroom. To cap it all, some idiot had thrown a handful of confetti through the door and the pinky-red petals had stuck in the wet stuff like midges to fly-paper. Spell resistant, the glaze responded only to old-fashioned soap and water, (even _Mrs Scower's Magical Mess Remover _was unequal to the challenge) and the class had spent the rest of the lesson physically scrubbing - the floor and the tacky soles of their contaminated footwear. Snape chose not to mention this.

"Pomona won't be happy, you know, if you've injured Longbottom. He's her star pupil. Thinks the world of that lad. Scalded, wasn't he?" Grubbly-Plank continued, ignoring Snape's scowl, and quizzing him with healthy curiosity.

"Superficially." Snape did not care to elaborate.

"Come to think of it, has anyone _seen_ Pomona today? I wager she'll take root in that greenhouse of hers one day. I'll pop my head in on my way back to Hagrid's. Well now, must be off - all that talk about Crups has reminded me - they'll be ready and waiting for 'walkies' - crossing their legs, don't you know - and I've got a Nogtail sow about to litter any second - no rest for the wicked, eh? Toodle-pip!"

The room seemed a great deal quieter without Professor Grubbly-Plank's hearty presence. For a few moments the remaining four members of staff took in deep breaths of silence, appreciating her absence. Then Professor Trelawney, still mussing her wispy hairline with the single-finger massage, set up a mournful wail:

"The signs! The signs are all about us! I _see_ great danger! I _see_ earth and air and fire and water… I _see_ height and depth, flying and falling, heat and cold… I _see_ life and death…"

"A fairly open brief, then," smiled Lupin. Snape's lips pursed with irritation.

"I _see _calamity and affliction pestilence and plague!" keened Trelawney.

"Which plagues did you have in mind for us, Sibyll? Frogs? Locusts? Boils?" asked McGonagall tersely.

Remus sensed a little professorial friction in the academic ether.

"Oh, I think we can safely tick off the 'boils'. Chalk that one up to young Neville!" he joked.

"Are you suggesting, Sibyll, that the Lake will turn red? That the pumpkins will rot in the barn? Are you predicting the death of our firstborn students?"

Snape grimaced - _that would be one way to get shot of Longbottom_.

"Oh, ye of little faith! You mock the Inner Eye!" cried Trelawney, flouncing out in a jangling waft of beads and scarves. "I _See_ - and soon, my friends, you too shall see…"

Lupin and McGonagall exchanged glances.

"What a shame - she didn't finish her tea," commented the witch.

They returned to their thoughts, each independently reviewing the anomalies of their day in the light of the recent conversation. Snape was particularly perplexed. He scrutinised the data columns again. It didn't make sense. He had checked Longbottom's measurements and method at every stage of the procedure - there was no way that potion should have failed…

He became aware that Lupin was regarding him with an asinine grin.

"Something funny, werewolf?" he growled.

"I see you have an admirer," laughed Lupin, tapping his head with a suggestive upward twitch of his shaggy eyebrows.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Snape snapped, but, reaching up, his fingers touched a spiky stem. As though weeding out a stinging-nettle, he plucked a specimen red bud from behind his right ear.

"What the..??!!"

And then he noticed the roses. A bunch of blowsy, pink tea-roses, their scented heads blushing out of his cloak pocket…

Lupin watched his colleague as he pulled out the flowers with diffident distaste, as though half-expecting a love-lorn student to be holding onto the other end. When they emerged, unattached, he tossed them dismissively onto the floor and flicked his wand.

_"Evanesco!"_

Instead of the roses disappearing, a second bunch bloomed on the table, yellow ones this time, double-petalled Floribundas, richly exotic. Their powdery fragrance filled the staffroom. Startled, Snape gave his wand a puzzled tap and, for an instant, he could almost have sworn that it vanished from sight. He shook his head, blinking.

"I'll, er, fetch a vase, shall I?" offered Lupin.

Snape's glare would have withered an oak tree.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," he spat, heading for the door.

Something told him that if he'd said 'the Longbottom of this' he would have been closer to the truth.

**End of Chapter. **

**Next Chapter: POTIONS AND PARKIN PIGS. Snape comes up against Neville's northern 'grit'. The magical situation deteriorates.**


	4. Potions and Parkin Pigs

**Author's note: Another fairly short chapter, dealing with Snape's antipathy towards Neville. Just so as you know, the Harry Potter Lexicon suggests that Neville comes from Lancashire, so I have built on that. (My Grandmother did too!) If it's all a bit confusing so far - that's how Harry and co feel as well!**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 4: POTIONS AND PARKIN PIGS**

Wednesday 18th December

"So, is that a 'yes'?" Harry whispered urgently. "Your parents are OK about it? You go home for the weekend and then Floo down to my - er, Snape's - house on Monday, the day before Christmas Eve. The 23rd? Yes?"

Hermione shushed him with a frowning shake of her head, but it was too late - Snape was already stalking across the dungeon towards them. He seemed to be treading somewhat cautiously, watching his feet.

"Mr Potter!"

Harry braced himself. During school hours Snape made no concession to the fact that Harry was his son. There was absolutely no question of preferential treatment. If anything, he was even more critical of Harry than of the others, more exacting. An outsider would not have been able to detect any appreciable improvement in their relationship. Only Harry sensed the difference: the severity was still there; the malice was absent.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Are you under the fallacious impression, Potter, that your preparations for the coming vacation take precedence over Potions? No? I see. Have you, perhaps, already mastered this part of the syllabus during a period of independent, extra-curricula study? Laudable indeed! No? Have I, then, in a fit of unwonted, seasonal generosity, accorded you special dispensation to discuss your Christmas plans with Miss Granger? NO? Then, you will DESIST! You will _pay attention_, and you will **not** speak unless spoken to. Is that clear? Fifteen points will be deducted from Gryffindor."

Snape seemed more than usually tense, thought Harry. In the past he, Harry, would have seethed at the rebuke, however deserved, scoffing at Snape, slating him as a mean-minded, vindictive bully. Those thoughts still surfaced, but now they bobbed in Harry's mind amongst a flotsam of understanding: factors other than personal animosity could cause Snape to be snappy - the nightmares, the gnawing pain of the Mark; being buttonholed at lunch by Trelawney; perhaps he'd simply had a long day. It was, after all, the last lesson of the afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Sir," mumbled Harry, meaning it.

"Very well." Snape's voice had that 'I'll deal with you later' tone which Harry was growing to know and dread. It would almost be preferable to be bawled out again in front of his friends than to explain himself in private. Still, he had to broach the joyful subject of Christmas sometime. Hermione was convinced that Snape would regard her visit as an unwelcome intrusion, but Harry wasn't so sure - he suspected that the presence of a third party might be a relief to all concerned.

Snape had turned to address the whole class.

"An investigation into the circumstances surrounding Longbottom's mis-concocted potion yesterday, and analysis of the residue - "

Behind a poker-face, Draco paled.

" - leads me to suspect…"

Jaw clenched, chin uplifted in self- defence, Draco practised his denial.

"…a case of, as yet unidentified, biological contamination," Snape announced.

Draco allowed his heart to beat again.

"I shall, therefore, be taking stringent measures today to eradicate any possible source of pollutants. I shall shortly be making a thorough inspection of all your equipment - cauldrons, utensils, containers and all ingredients from your own personal supplies. I expect them, of course, to be in scrupulous condition. Anything less is unacceptable."

He glowered at them.

"At the end of the lesson you will also hand in your brewing journals for auditing. But first, I intend to conduct a personal inspection. Potions protocol in this class is lamentably slack. At NEWT level there is _no excuse_ for sloppiness. It will not go unpunished."

He surveyed them like a Regimental Sergeant Major on parade, reviewing the troops, picking on trifles that even he would normally have let pass without comment.

"Parkinson! Nail varnish is not permitted – and that shade of green is particularly unpleasant. Remove it at once. Abbot! I suggest you revise chapter 1 of your first year text-book, if that is not too arduous a task, in which it clearly states under 'Basic Regulations' that jewellery should not be worn. The one exception to that rule being…? You don't know? Why does that not surprise me? _Elven White Gold_, Miss Abbot. Or am I mistaken in my assumption that we are dealing with a baser alloy here? No? Take the ring off.

"Longbottom!"

Snape eyed the boy in disbelief. Could this unprepossessing, podgy, witless simpleton be responsible for the problems bedevilling the school? It seemed hardly credible. But then… Snape's carping gaze fell to Neville's shoes which bore the traces of another happy morning spent in the herb garden.

"True sons of the soil, Longbottom, may take a perverse pride in displaying their earthy origins. You, however, can lay claim to no such agricultural antecedents. This super-abundance of _dirt_ can only testify as to your inexcusable disregard for fundamental cleanliness… Next time try wearing pattens…

"What passes for good practice in the covens of Pendle, boy, may fall well short of what is deemed acceptable by Hogwarts' standards. Now, let me examine your bag."

Neville reluctantly nudged his satchel towards the Potions Master. Draco tensed. Snape tipped out the contents: a jumble of battered books, quills, ink in several inedible colours, bottles of ingredients and a rather enticingly aromatic, fat paper bag. He pounced on this latter, opening it up with an exclamation of triumph. A selection of flattish, currant-filled pastry cakes and crumbly, brown animal shapes tumbled out onto the desk.

"Explain yourself, Longbottom! Even _you_ must know that no food is allowed in the lab!"

Had this been an impromptu raid for illicit 'tuck', Snape would have counted the haul as a moderate success. In the present circumstances, though, he considered a bag of buns to be something of an anti-climax.

"My gran sends them." Neville fidgeted uneasily. Mentioning his grandmother in the master's hearing was not recommended - it would be many years before Snape would live down the ignominy of Neville's solution to his Boggart's Snape-like appearance. In fact, Snape had heard the incident described so many times, so graphically - the story was an especial after-dinner favourite of Dumbledore's - that he felt as though it really had been him wearing the green robes and fox-fur scarf. A musty 'memory' of lavender-water, mothballs and Palma violets, mingled with the stale, vinegary smell of stuffed vulture clung in his nostrils.

"Ah, the redoubtable, Lancashire matriarch! Your 'gran' sends them, does she? By racing-pigeon?" Sarcasm may have soothed Snape, but it was lost on Neville. The boy blundered on.

"Well, Sir, they're Chorley cakes and Parkin Pigs. My gran bakes them herself, and sends me a batch every fortnight or so, in case I get peckish."

"Peckish?" Snape repeated, his nostrils curling in disgust.

"Sir. The Pigs are more traditionally associated with Plot Night, er - Guy Fawkes' Night. They're a kind of oatmeally ginger-cake, Sir. My gran always eats hers with a cut of Wensleydale. They're awfully nice. Do you want to try one, Sir?" Despite his nerves, Neville gave a homely, honest answer, returning Snape's gaze steadily.

"Silence!" Snape was beginning to realise that what he had taken for slowness in the boy was rather a stolid independence, a rough core of individuality at odds with the more flashy demands of school convention. It might be possible to drill some sense into him, given time. But not today. "Longbottom, you must try to rise above the _cotton mill_ mentality. Destroy these cakes!"

"Could I save them for Trevor? He loves them," Neville asked, courageous in the line of fire.

"What? Trevor? Oh, for Merlin's sake! If you must. Feed them to that apology for an amphibian you call a toad. At least he's not a _whippet_!"

Standing awaiting her turn, Hermione listened indignantly. Why was Snape being so horrid to Neville? It was unfair to mock his background - it wasn't as though he had any choice about where his family came from. She was starting to regret agreeing to Harry's request. Did she really want to spend Christmas in the same house as this nasty man?

Her questioning look collided with Harry's apologetic shrug. There was something more than spoiled potions at stake here. Why was Snape so uptight today? Why hadn't he just flicked his wand and exploded Neville's cakes on the spot - it wasn't as though he had Trevor's gastric interests at heart? And since when had he had that habit of running his fingers through his hair from temple to ear, as though feeling for something…?

Snape picked up the last of Neville's glass bottles. Several desks away, Draco held his breath. So far Snape had been unable to find fault with any of the ingredients - the phials were tightly stoppered, their contents correct, corresponding with the easily legible labels, which were clearly written though in a painstaking, childish hand.

"Shark Lily - grated rhizome." He read. The bottle bore the previous Sunday's date, as did all the others in the batch that they would be using in the Calming Draught that afternoon. Madam Pomfrey always liked to get in extra supplies of the Draught at times of stress or excitement - exams, Hallowe'en, end of term and so on. It was quite traditional for Snape to get his NEWT class to assist in the preparation of the pre-Christmas batch.

"This **is** blanched, I take it?"

"Of course, Sir. Professor Sprout did it herself." Neville sounded horrified. Short of actually using some in a potion, there was no way of checking. Snape studied him intently. He could detect no deception in the boy _whatsoever_. It was most frustrating - he'd been so sure that Longbottom's possessions would yield some sort of clue. It would have been satisfying to have all his objections to the boy validated by proof of incompetence.

Professor Dumbledore had called an emergency staff meeting that lunchtime. The situation was deteriorating. What had begun as an isolated Potions accident was multiplying into a spate of mysterious, inexplicable incidents. Reports of mis-magic had been coming in from all over the school. Some classes seemed more badly affected than others. Professor Grubbly-Plank had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, whereas Professor Flitwick, alarmed at the way even a straightforward _Wingardium Leviosa_ was causing problems, had made his students sit for the duration of the lesson with their hands on their heads.

Professor Lupin was cautiously optimistic that the worst was over - his classes had calmed down and passed uneventfully. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, after another morning of dismembered Crups, was showing signs of strain.

The staff, accustomed to extraordinary phenomena at the best of times, were, on this occasion, baffled. There was no evidence of a culprit, of a plot, of malicious intent or any logical sequence - they were all equally victims. No individual was manifesting any symptoms of illness, apart from shock and anxiety, and these were a reaction to the events not the cause. There was no common denominator to link any of the occurrences. They were not confined to any one class, or House or year group.

But a worrying trend was emerging: at first it had seemed that pupils and staff were affected by a loss of magical _focus_ - hadn't they all been attributing the mistakes to poor concentration, forgetfulness or a misguided sense of humour? As the day progressed, however, the reports became more specific: a brick wall had materialised in one of the Third floor corridors, completely blocking the way to the library; Hufflepuff had entered their Common Room that afternoon to find the ceiling covered in vivid green aphids, exuding a citrus-scented sap, surprisingly attractive as it dripped from the rafters like fresh, lime-bright droplets of Springtime. Peeves had enthusiastically alerted them to a freak and extremely _localised_ tropical whirlwind, which had knocked over the giant Christmas tree, and dragged down all the curtains in the Great Hall, sweeping them into the centre of the room in a pile of shredded fabric.

None of the staff, not even Snape, had dared to suggest that Peeves might be _'jumping on the bandwagon'_.

More seriously, Professor Sprout had not been seen in the Castle for over twenty-four hours. And then there were Snape's roses…

xx x

In the dungeon, Boot, Brocklehurst and Malfoy passed muster - just - even though there was a dead spider in Boot's cauldron and Draco had dirt under his fingernails and had been sent to wash his hands.

Hermione already knew what Snape would say to her - and he did.

"Hair!" The single word sliced the air.

OK, so she was having a 'bad hair day' - or a couple of consecutive bhd's – but what was she supposed to _do_ about it? Her rampant tangle didn't normally frizz up this badly unless it got wet, but today it was, admittedly, out of control. Perhaps there was a lot of moisture in the atmosphere. Come to think of it, her robes had felt a little damp when she put them on this morning. She had tried to bring the obstinate curls into line with two velvet scrunchies and several elastic bands, but they had simply pinged off.

"Miss Granger!" Snape had been hovering over her like a kestrel. Now he dropped for the kill. "_That_ - " He indicated her unruly mane. "is a fire hazard, a health hazard and a public nuisance. If you want Pre-Raphaelite Potions, you are in the wrong dungeon. Either cut it, or control it. Invest in some _Sleekeasy's_. And," he added in an icy aside, as he passed on towards Harry, "you have cat fur on your robes. You will eradicate all evidence of that animal before entering the classroom, or I will take steps to eliminate the problem at source."

Hermione's hackles were up now - no one threatened Crookshanks!

"Mr Potter!" Snape's voice was again acid with outrage. "Are you trying to be funny? How dare you come into my class dressed like a filthy house elf who has spent the morning cleaning out grates! What is the meaning of this?"

Confused, Harry glanced down at his robes. His right side was thickly dusted in a trail of grey streaks, leading up to his pocket. Instinctively he reached for his wand, but encountered nothing but a gritty handful of charcoal and cinders. At the same time he felt a vicious, jabbing pain in his fingers, palm, wrist, the back of his hand. He must have winced.

"Potter?" Snape demanded. "What's wrong? Show me your hand."

Unwillingly, Harry proffered his right hand for inspection. The skin was crazed with countless deep scratches, and puncture wounds welling blood red berries which mingled with the ash, caking his fist in a congealing, granular paste.

His father's eyes narrowed in concern and he touched the boy on the shoulder.

"You must get that seen to at once, Harry," he said quietly. Then, brusque once more, "Granger! Go with Potter to Madam Pomfrey - and get a haircut while you're about it!"

_Damn! A second serious potions accident in as many days. His reputation for classroom safety would be in tatters. Another hand injury too. That ranting fool Trelawney hadn't said anything about a plague of injured hands!_

"Alright! Show's over. Back to work," he growled, sending the six students who had all edged forwards to get a squiz at Harry, scurrying back to their desks.

_Oh no, thought Draco, anticipation whetting his lips into a slippery grin, the Show's just about to start…_

**End of Chapter. **

**Next Chapter: LET SLEEPING DRAGONS LIE. Chaos in the Hospital Wing. Neville's disaster is Draco's triumph - either way, it's a headache for Snape. Is Neville less stupid than everybody thinks?**


	5. Let Sleeping Dragons Lie

**Author's note: in the next few chapters I get totally distracted by the sub-plot, but it was such fun writing it that I just went with the flow. I do bring it back to the real 'Christmas' theme eventually. I'm going to try and load the remaining chapters a bit more regularly, cos I'm away in January, and by the time I get back Christmas will be a distant memory...**

**So, Neville's messed up again in Potions, Harry's been injured, a series of trivial or maybe not so trivial things are happening in the school, and no one has a clue what's going on (including you readers, if my reviews are anything to go by!)**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 5: LET SLEEPING DRAGONS LIE**

Wednesday 18th December

"Harry, what happened? Are you alright?" Hermione felt that she was making rather a habit of accompanying her friends to the hospital wing.

"My wand's gone. I think it spontaneously combusted in my pocket." Harry was more worried about his wand than his bleeding fingers.

"Were you holding it when it blew up? Is that what cut you?"

"Yes - no. I don't know. I don't think so. This is crazy. None of it makes any sense."

He had seen the alarm on his father's face and he'd realised, with a jolt, that Snape was as mystified as everybody else. The thought depressed him. Somehow he had always assumed that the adult wizards had all the answers; that somewhere, in a dusty, magical tome, was the exact spell to set the world to rights. It probably was there, he thought phlegmatically - they just hadn't found it yet. Suddenly he grinned at Hermione:

"Your hair looks fine to me."

She knew now wasn't a good time, but it would be dishonest of her not to say something. If Snape was going to be such a bastard, she didn't see how she could go ahead with the visit.

"Harry, about Christmas…" she began.

"I'm really glad you're going to be there. It'll make all the difference. You're a good sport, Hermione. Sorry, what were you going to say?"

"Oh, nothing," she tailed off, lamely.

x x x

Sick Bay was as crowded as _Zonko's_ on a Hogsmeade weekend. Harry and Hermione pushed past two nosebleeds, a black eye, and Padma and Parvati who each had a pine cone growing out of the centre of their forehead. A huddle of Slytherin Year Fours were there, soaking wet and shivering, chipping away at chunks of compacted snow that erupted from their chests like frozen, white fungal growths. Ginny was there too. Her face, arms and legs had sprouted dozens of lethally sharp, fire-tipped spines. She stood next to the open window, spraying herself with an atomiser, steaming, and warning people, quite unnecessarily, not to come too close. Through the throng of faces Hermione caught a glimpse of Ron - he seemed to be crying.

Just then Madam Pomfrey, less flustered than you might have expected, bustled up to them.

"Haven't been this busy since the Weasley's _Skiving Snackboxes_!" she declared. "Hermione, are you still in one piece? Good. Perhaps you can assist me with the triage. Sort this lot into three groups: 'in pain', 'in discomfort' and 'merely embarrassed', and I'll take it from there… Oh dear, Harry, that does look nasty - you'd better come with me…"

She ushered Harry away behind a screen. Before attempting to group the walking wounded, Hermione sought out Ron.

"Oh, Ron!" she cried, moved almost to the point of giving him a hug.

"Wotcha!" He didn't seem unduly upset.

"Ron, what is it? Is it Ginny?" She reached up and brushed a tear from his cheek.

"No. She'll be OK. I'm fine. No, honestly, I am. I'm happy, really. It's just my eyes watering. Blessed if I know what's going on. There's one or two of us like this. It's all pretty mind-blowing, isn't it? There's Pritchard who can't stop hopping - he's over there; you'll see him in a second when he bounces up again. And Natalie MacDonald has been doing a non-stop dog impersonation for about three hours. It was funny at first, but all that barking gets on your nerves after a while. I think someone bandaged over her mouth in the end, to muffle the noise."

"Why not use _Silencio_?" Hermione asked.

Ron gave a hiccoughing laugh and blew his nose.

"Well, you obviously haven't tried doing any magic this afternoon. It's all gone to bollocks. Nothing works. It's wizardry, Sir, but not as we know it. Merlin only knows what - oh, crikey!"

Hermione followed his startled gaze to the door, where a troop of Ravenclaw Year Three were side-stepping into the ward, their stiff, shuffling cha-cha punctuated by an occasional, self-conscious, ungainly mambo. Five of them had wooden legs. Of the remaining seven, two were holding up their arms in a suspiciously rigid pose, fingers splayed; Orla Quirke appeared to have been chiselled from a single tree-trunk from the waist up, and four were sprouting foliage from their ears and nostrils.

There was an uncanny uniformity about the shambling, Pinocchio group. There was a certain '_brown-ness'_ about them. Hermione looked more closely. Their clothes were grained with whorls of deep, reddish-brown - rich, glossy, curving traces, rippling out from dark mahogany knots. They looked as though they had been tightly tie-dyed in creosote, the wood-stain Hermione's dad had used last summer on the garden fence.

Bringing up the rear of the drab dancers, was the stumbling, distraught figure of an equally nut-brown Professor McGonagall.

"What have I done? Merciful Merlin, what have I done?" she repeated shrilly, wild-eyed and trembling. "Oh, whatever will I tell their parents? Never, in all my born days… Oh, this won't do - it simply won't do…" Her voice was tangoing towards genteel hysteria.

Madam Pomfrey steadied her with a comforting arm.

"Now then, Minerva, we've seen far worse. You're over-wrought. Come and lie down, and I'll give you something to help you relax."

Hermione suddenly remembered she had a job to do. She climbed onto a chair and shouted:

"If any of you are in pain, bleeding, missing limbs or in respiratory distress please line up behind Ginny Weasley. Those of you who are disabled in some way but not in imminent danger, form an orderly queue over by the fire exit. The rest of you, who aren't actually hurt but look extremely silly, get together at the back of the room and laugh at each other. You may have a long wait."

X X X

Five perfect potions. Boot, Brocklehurst, Parkinson, Abbot and Malfoy had all produced acceptable Calming Draughts. It was not difficult: the trick lay in blending the ingredients to a perfectly smooth paste before applying heat. There was really very little that could go wrong. Snape allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. He need not have worried after all. The end of the lesson was in sight. If he could just get Longbottom to complete his potion without mishap, they could all go. He'd have time to check on Harry and then rendezvous with the rest of the staff for an update on the situation, before joining in the search for Professor Sprout.

"Longbottom!"

"Sir?"

"You have now observed the correct method _five times_. That should be sufficient even for you. You are to duplicate the procedure precisely. I shall be watching you. You may begin."

Neville read through the recipe again; he verified - again – the labels on his ingredients; he gave the scales another preparatory wipe (they seemed a bit sticky); he polished his spoon…

"Get on with it, boy!"

Neville wished Snape wouldn't stand so close. The man was looming over him like - well, like _Snape_ (Neville couldn't think of anything worse) - sending him into a fumbling fluster. He was monitoring his every move, every measurement, every drop, grain, shred and granule, molecule and atom that passed from Neville's bottles into the mixture. If he came any closer he'd be **in** the cauldron.

Since his accident on Monday, Neville had been reluctant to do any brewing. Madam Pomfrey had worked her usual sublime miracles with Better Balm, and his arm was blister-free and perfectly usable (though the pink, new skin was tight and awfully itchy), but Neville was now more than ever convinced that he and Potions were incompatible. It had never been his favourite subject, he'd never shown the least aptitude for it, and now any residual speck of confidence had sizzled to nothing, along with the skin of his right hand. He couldn't believe that he - even he - had been so stupid as to scald himself in the first place - what sort of duffer would be so daft? Worse still, he had the illogical feeling that he might end up doing it again - that the irresistible lure of malign fate, fused with an absurd, masochistic compulsion, would draw his hand ineluctably back into the bubbling liquid…

So, as each new ingredient slipped from his fingers into the cauldron, Neville would flinch, jumping _backwards_ out of harm's way, while Snape craned _forward_ to assess the effect of the latest addition. They made a curious see-sawing double act.

Draco was also standing well back, prepared to leave the room at a moment's notice. He was not sure how violent the reaction would be. The only details he'd been able to glean from Longbottom were that, during the blanching process, a catalytic reaction occurred on contact with liquid, during which harmful substances were expelled and subsequently neutralised by heat. Professor Sprout always took care of this herself, and Neville had no further information, other than to assure Draco that Shark-Lily, once properly treated, was perfectly safe…

Neville dropped the fine, white shreds of grated rhizome into the cauldron and leaped back. The root entered the cold liquid with a screaming hiss, ejecting its toxins in a plosive, mustard-yellow vapour cloud, which billowed up out of the cauldron just as Snape was leaning in towards it. He recoiled as though a Great White itself had bitten him in the face, but it was too late. The noxious steam was already swirling in his lungs.

"_Evanesco_!" he spluttered, brandishing his wand at the cauldron. "Stand well back, all of you!" He rounded ferociously on Neville, dangerous as a cornered Chimaera.

"**Longbottom**!"

"I'm sorry, Sir. That wasn't supposed to happen, was it, Sir?" Neville whimpered.

"Longbottom! You are the most crass, incompetent, ungifted, unreliable, idiotic, worthless _imbecile_ it has ever been my misfortune to teach. You are - "

He was interrupted by a volley of staccato sneezes from the adjacent desk. Brocklehurst was clutching at her collar, wheezing for breath, her eyes streaming.

Malfoy, with a sneer of distaste, took another step back.

"Yeah, that'd be right, Brocklehurst - give us all flu, just in time for Christmas. That's all we need," he muttered unsympathetically.

"What is it, girl? Did you inhale the vapour? Are you ill?" Snape transferred his attention to the snuffling student.

"No, Sir. It's not that," Brocklehurst gasped. "I'm allergic to roses!"

Snape pivoted in sick horror.

Neville's cauldron, clear of all traces of Potion, would have graced a Florist on Valentine's Day. The flowers burst from the cauldron in glorious profusion: Shrub roses in scarlet, puce and carmine clusters; loose-petalled pinky-salmon Ramblers, twining their prickly brambles around the rim, twisting in an out of the metal handles; arching sprays of Hybrid Tea roses, vibrantly vermillion; abundant, blushing crimson Grandiflora, heavy-headed on their upright stems; blood-red buds gathered by the romantic dozen… …every imaginable shade of red and pink - **and** every embarrassing tint in between.

Snape was appalled. He couldn't take his eyes off them.

"Sir! Mandy can't breathe!" Hannah Abbot was starting to panic.

"What? Yes. Yes, of course."

He crossed to the cupboard of emergency antidotes and scanned the rows of bottles. The toxic vapour snapped at his synapses. His head was splitting. The handwritten labels were a throbbing, pulsating blur; already he could feel the serrations of the shark's teeth sawing into his brain, a gathering tension behind the eyes, a distant drumming growing louder, more insistent. With an effort he selected a phial.

"Miss Abbot. Give her three drops on the back of the tongue. Then get her into the fresh air. Or take her to Pomfrey. Then go. All of you - GO!"

Snape groped his way to his desk and sank into the chair, a hand clamped to his forehead. The world around him swam. The herbal trepan was tightening its screws into his skull, crushing rationality, imploding his mind into an infinitely dense nucleus of pain.

The girls left in a fussing threesome, their arms protectively around each other's waists, Mandy still wheezing faintly. Boot, looking for an excuse to join them, picked up Brocklehurst's bag and trailed after them. That left only Draco and Neville.

"Now you've done it, you blundering squiboid! You've gone and poisoned Professor Snape!" Draco accused Neville loudly.

Neville still didn't understand what had happened. All he knew was that his potion had gone wrong again. There was a tragic inevitability about it. He was destined to fail. And, yes, evidently he _had_ poisoned Snape.

"My gran gets migraines sometimes," he said, trying to be helpful, hoping to redeem himself. "She says to lie down in a darkened room with a cold compress. And don't eat chocolate. Or cheese." Neville bumbled and twittered.

"Brilliant! Like I was going to give him _cheese_!" Malfoy could not disguise his contempt. "Oh, piss off, _Pongbottom_, you gibbering turd-brain. You're worse than useless; you're a bloody liability. Piss off, and go and sniff sorrel, or whatever it is you herby geeks do for kicks. You're no help here."

Draco was anxious to get rid of Neville. Just a few minutes more and he'd have access to Snape's private Pensieve! He had to get Snape back to his rooms before the soporific stage of the Shark-Lily kicked in. He needed him to open that warded door…

"Neville's right, Sir. You ought to go and lie down. Come on."

Snape was in no condition to argue.

X X X

"Neville! Wait! Where are you going?"

He slowed down a little, but kept stumping on down the corridor. Hermione had to run to catch up with him.

"What's the rush? Where are you going?" she asked again.

"To the Greenhouse." His tone was flat but determined. "I need to look something up. I may even have to borrow Professor Sprout's files. Then they can expel me for that too."

"Neville, what's happened?"

The boy's jaw set stubbornly.

"Nothing. But I'm **not** a squib or an imbecile, and my name's _Longbottom_. Sorrel doesn't even taste nice. How's Harry? Why are you all wet?"

Hermione thought it wiser not to delve too deeply. Her eyes dropped to her splashed clothing. She was indeed wet.

"Oh, it's my own fault, I suppose. I'm on my way to get changed into something dry. Ron warned me. He said that all the spells were going haywire this afternoon, but I didn't believe him. Or, at least, I didn't really believe that **my** magic would go weird… Well, you know what Ron's like! It _could_ have been a joke… But, it wasn't," she concluded ruefully with a shiver.

"So? And…?" Neville was waiting for the explanation.

"Oh. So I thought I'd try _Aresco!_ on Ron - he's got this thing where his eyes keep watering - but instead of drying up the tears, my wand turned into a kind of hose-pipe affair and started squirting everybody. Madam Pomfrey got in a bit of a strop, actually. Sent me out. And, Harry's alright, by the way. I think he's gone back to the Common Room to sit quietly - the hospital wing's like a mad-house."

She could tell Neville wasn't really listening. He was looking at her, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his eyes troubled.

"Flu - is it an airborne virus?" he asked unexpectedly.

"Er, isn't it passed on in droplets when you cough, or something?" she answered, puzzled. "Why? Are you feeling flu-ey?"

He shook his head slowly, thinking.

"What's your wand made of?" Another non-sequitur.

"Laburnum. Why? What is this? Neville, have you got an idea? Do you know what's going on?" She was interested now, thrilled at the prospect of being the one to solve the mystery (with a little help from Neville).

"That figures!" He gave a strangely enigmatic chuckle.

"What? What figures? Neville, if you've got an idea you must tell Dumbledore. Or Snape. If it's to do with Potions, you ought to tell Snape."

An expression of dour, quashed resignation replaced his flash of levity.

"I, er, don't think Professor Snape would really want to see me right now," he mumbled despondently. "Or ever again, for that matter."

"Oh, Neville - _what_ have you done?"

"Nothing! I didn't **do** anything! It just happened." He was aggrieved.

Hermione linked her arm with his and wheeled him round until they were walking in the opposite direction, back towards the dungeon.

"Whatever it is you _didn't do_, you can come to Snape and apologise for it. And then you can tell him about your idea."

"He'll say it's rubbish. He called me incompetent. Anyway, he's got a headache," muttered Neville, dredging for excuses.

But Hermione, riddle-solver extraordinaire, was not easily diverted.

The door to Snape's room was ajar. That in itself was suspicious. They knocked and waited. Neville, his face suffused with relief, turned to leave, but Hermione dragged him back. Then they knocked again and cautiously pushed the solid, dark green door wide open.

"Draco?"

They caught him in the act. He was bending over the couch, tucking a blanket around Snape who seemed to be fast asleep. He stood up guiltily as they entered, and put his fingers to his lips.

"Shhh!"

_Phew! Nearly caught red-handed! Never moved so fast in my life! Nice, 'caring' touch, that blanket… Granger'll go for that. What the hell are they doing here anyway? Damn them! Another couple of minutes and I'd have got to the juicy stuff… Still, I suppose I've got what I came for - what my Dad wanted…_

"Draco, what are you doing here?" Hermione whispered. "What's wrong with Snape? Are those cobwebs in your hair?"

The Slytherin gave them his most supercilious sneer.

"Ask _No-Brain_ here - it's all his doing. Ask him what happens when you don't blanch your Shark-Lily, eh?"

"Oh, Neville! You didn't!" Hermione realised she had missed an eventful lesson. Neville began bleating excuses. Taking advantage of the distraction, Draco slipped past them into the corridor. He smoothed a casual hand over his hair, cupping away the silvery fistful of Snape's random thought fragments that had drifted up out of the Pensieve.

It was all so frustrating! Lucius had been quite specific about the memories he required; following his instructions had enabled Draco to find them without too much trouble, but he'd had to forgo the opportunity to scroll through Snape's other secrets. And Draco had been promising himself this treat for days! From the first moment he'd read his father's note, the tantalising idea of ransacking the Pensieve had spurred him on. He could only imagine the leverage it would give him, the power!_ Snape's memories, he'd told himself, would be X-rated: they'd be a seething morass of violence and sadism - there'd be Death Eater stuff there for certain; and sex - yeah, it would be the real thing; phew! he'd heard rumours about what the Dark Lord's inner circle got up to, but he'd never thought he'd get a ringside view; hell, he might even get the dirt on Potter's mother. Now, there's a thought! What if there was something he could use against Potter too? Some kind of father/son thing that they'd hushed up?_

_But just as he was savouring that exquisite moment of anticipation, before plunging himself headlong into the most sordid, vicious, salacious, smutty experience of his life (or so he hoped; oh, **how** he hoped!), those two interfering, Gryffindor busybodies came knocking on the door. Damn and blast! Talk about bad timing! Hell, all he'd seen was a glimpse of some crying kid on a broomstick, flying in circles up in the clouds… what was so secret about that? Then, for a second, he saw some woman shouting in a strange language, waving her arms – a tall, dark woman, quite a looker. Could that have been Lily Potter? No, wasn't she supposed to have been a red-head? Then there'd been something more promising: yes, yes, this was good - Snape, sitting by a fire, holding some potion bottles, and Potter was in the room… Potter was coming towards him… What were they saying?_

Knock! Knock!Knock!

_Aaaargh! He should never have left the door open. But he'd been scared that it might be spelled to 'self-ward' automatically on closing - Snape was paranoid enough for that - and the last thing he wanted was to get locked in. He could have talked his way out of it, he supposed, but it would have been awkward. It would have raised eyebrows and questions. Could he get rid of Longbottom and Granger? Somehow he doubted that. They were annoyingly tenacious. And Granger had been giving him suspicious looks… Better to cut his losses and get out while he could. At least he'd had time to push the Pensieve back out of sight before they came blundering in._

"What are you doing here, Draco?" Hermione asked again, more insistently.

Malfoy tried to sound offended:

"If that's all the thanks I get for doing my Good Samaritan act, then next time I won't bother. What happened to you, _Bogbottom_ - made yourself pretty scarce, didn't you? Scarpered, and left me to it. What were you doing - going to fetch some _cheese_? Someone had to look after Snape, and as all the rest of you had buggered off…"

His self-righteous martyrdom didn't fool Hermione, but she couldn't disprove anything. The injustice of Draco's accusations and the blatant _lying_, had rendered Neville speechless.

"Anyway, he's asleep now," Malfoy continued. "I shouldn't wake him up, if I were you. '_Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus',_ as they say. Stupid motto, but oddly appropriate here, wouldn't you say? Actually, **do** wake him up - I quite fancy watching you two getting _disembowelled_! No? Oh well, I'll be off then."

He had an important rendezvous with a seagull in the Owlery…

x x x

"He's up to something," said Hermione suspiciously. "But I can't work out what it is. I mean, since when has Malfoy ever been nice to anyone for no _reason_? I thought he was looking shifty the other day - it was probably him who Hot-Hexed your wand."

"I wouldn't bet on it." Neville seemed to think it unlikely. Hermione was put out - it would have been immensely satisfying to incriminate Malfoy.

"Look, we'll bounce your idea off Snape, and you can see if you can grovel your way out of a detention. And then I think we'd better go and bottle up those Calming draughts. He'll be even more grumpy if all those potions are wasted too. Maybe you'll be able to claw back a few House points… Come on then."

But she was going to have to pull Neville bodily across the threshold. He hung back.

"Look, it's only a hunch, OK? I've got no proof yet. I really need to do some tests first. If I'm wrong…"

Draco's comment about 'the sleeping dragon' echoed in his head. The idea of tickling it sent chills of fear down his spine. In Neville's mind, the 'sleeping dragon' was an extremely fierce one, and the prospect of merely waking him up was terrifying enough.

Hermione tip-toed into the room. She stood by the side of the couch and gazed down at Snape. Asleep, he was not threatening. It was perhaps the first time she had ever seen him relaxed: the frown lines were smoothed from his brow; his mouth no longer tensed into a thin-lipped scowl; she noticed how very long and dark his eye-lashes were. He looked deceptively peaceful.

"No, you're right," she whispered to Neville. "Let him sleep."

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter : NEVILLE'S THEORY. If Neville's explanation is right then Snape may have a problem...**


	6. Neville's Theory

**Author's note: The next two chapters were originally written as one, but it got so long thatI split it. I'll try and load them together. I have taken huge liberties here with wand technicalities. I've followed canon in so far as it goes… but then gone much further. My feeling is that if a wand tree is not specified in canon, that does not mean it cannot be used, just that JKR has not yet made reference to it. i.e. Anything goes!**

**...It is the early hours of Thursday morning, and, as Snape was asleep, drugged by the Shark-Lily, Hermione and Neville have decided to try out the theory on Harry…**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 6 : NEVILLE'S THEORY**

Thursday 19th December

"I don't get it. What's James Potter's wand got to do with Professor McGonagall?" moaned Harry blearily. He hugged his dressing gown round him more tightly and stared at them dull-eyed, blinking blindly for consciousness through a fog of interrupted sleep. He was not at all happy about being woken up at five-thirty in the morning, especially by Neville prodding his stomach and making spitty 'psst!' noises in his ear. Following Neville downstairs to the Common Room, he had been surprised to find Hermione, fully dressed, perched in one of the squashy armchairs, wide-awake and holding a clipboard - like a market researcher conducting a consumer survey. Both she and Neville looked tired, as though they hadn't had much sleep either, but there was a fervour about them, some kind of suppressed excitement that told Harry they were onto something big.

"Neville's got an idea - about what's happening to our magic. We haven't much empirical evidence as yet, to support the hypothesis, but we've been running tests in the Greenhouse all night and all the results point towards the same conclusion. We need more hard data now to corroborate the theory. So, we're compiling a list…" Hermione spoke with her 'pre-exam' intensity, focussed and keen.

"Whoa! Slow down! **WHAT** theory?" Harry demanded, struggling now to wake up _and_ keep up. Hermione gave Neville an 'over to you' nod. This was his moment. Harry could see him puffing slightly, modesty barely containing the swell of self-importance; he looked like Trevor, inflated and about to croak.

"It's a fungicidal, devolutionary, pathogenic, viral contaminant!" he announced. "I think. Well, it might be. It's possible. I can't prove it yet but…"

"Oh, God!" groaned Harry, wishing he were still in bed. "What the heck's one of those? How can something be a virus _and_ a fungus?"

"At a cellular level - " Neville began ponderously, but Hermione cut him off.

"Don't get too technical on us, Neville. Harry still gets _styles_ and _stigma_ muddled up. Anyway, don't listen to him, Harry - we've got as much proof as we need. I'm convinced anyhow. But we've had to make a lot of assumptions. That's why we had to wake you up; there are certain details which might - "

"Hey! I still don't get this. You're going to have to run it past me again. Slowly. In layman's terms. In words of less than four syllables." Harry was awake now, but totally bemused. Hermione rolled her eyes in impatience and sat twisting her frizz of hair into thick, springy corkscrews, as Neville began at the beginning.

"I've been giving the matter a great deal of thought, a great deal," he said in his flat, Lancashire accent, "and the con-clusion I've come to is that I did everything right. I mean, I always thought I did, but I couldn't be positive; and everyone seemed to think that I didn't. But I did. I was _that_ careful!"

Harry was sure that he had been. But he hadn't a clue what he was talking about. Neville saw the incomprehension glazing his eyes; it was a feeling he recognised only too well.

"In my brewing, Harry. In my Potions. _Why_ should they have gone so wrong? So, it follows that, if I followed the instructions right - and I swear that I did - then it must have been my ingredients that were wrong. They'd been tampered with. That's the only explanation I can come up with for what happened on Monday, and why I poisoned Professor Snape yesterday…"

"What!?" No one had thought to tell Harry. "What've you done to him, Longbottom?" he demanded to know. He wasn't feeling too sympathetic towards his father - the man couldn't even be bothered to visit him to find out if his hand was better - but that didn't mean he wanted him _poisoned_. Hermione hurried to reassure him.

"Snape's fine, Harry. Or he will be, by this morning. It was an accident."

Neville made an apologetic face.

"_Somebody_ - mentioning no names, mind, but I've got a good idea who - substituted un-blanched Shark-Lily to put in my Calming Draught . Though why _he's_ got it in for me, I don't know. I suppose _he_ thinks it's funny."

Behind Neville's back Hermione silently mouthed the name 'Malfoy'.

"Anyway, to get back to Monday… You know my project? The one I'm doing for Professor Sprout?"

"The sick plant survey?" Harry wished Neville hadn't started quite so far back. Were they going to re-enact the whole of the last week?

"Very droll, Harry," he said, a note of reproach in his voice. "Part of the project is going to involve trials – blind and double-blind trials – of various plant pathogens. There were samples in Professor Sprout's shed, waiting to be tested and analysed. I didn't know what half of them were - obviously, otherwise I might have prejudiced the results of the study…"

"Obviously!"

"And I'm guessing that the same _somebody_, also substituted one of those samples for one of my ingredients for Monday's potion. We haven't isolated the contaminant yet, but we're narrowing it down. There are so many bally things it could be: canker, smut, wilt, thrips, scab, spraing, blotch, gummosis, chafer grubs, botrytis, blight…" He was counting them off on his fingers, and looked as though he could list several more hands' worth…

By this point Hermione was almost beside herself in her eagerness to explain to Harry how the pieces of the jigsaw fitted into place.

"And so Draco Hot-Hexed Neville's wand," she declared, "and he dropped it in the potion with the fungus in it, and the wand got contaminated…"

"Sounds a bit far-fetched to me," muttered Harry.

"No, listen, Harry. There's more, and it all starts to make a horrible kind of sense," said Hermione, more seriously. "The only person who knew what was in those samples was Professor Sprout. And she's disappeared, right? And who is the only person who knows how to kill the 'germs', or whatever they are, in those samples?"

"Professor Sprout?" Harry replied on cue.

"Precisely!"

"OK," Harry argued, "so Neville's wand gets dipped in some mouldy potion. So what? What's that got to do with our magic going up the creek? It doesn't explain why the school's under some weird Jinx, and everybody's powers are totally fucked. It doesn't explain why Ron can't stop crying and Ginny's grown spikes… It doesn't explain why my wand burned to bits in my pocket!"

Harry wanted to believe them, but all their evidence so far had been circumstantial. He hadn't intended to sound so sceptical, but he needed more proof. This had all been sprung on him; he needed time to assimilate it. He was feeling unaccountably upset – if anyone had asked he would have said he was tired and hungry, but he suspected it had more to do with the way his stomach had dipped in alarm when Neville was talking about Snape… He didn't want to care, but he couldn't help it.

"No, we don't have all the answers," said Neville patiently. "We _know_ my wand got contaminated in my cauldron on Monday, and we _think_ that other wands have been infected, but we don't know how the virus or bacteria are spreading…"

"Airborne," piped up Hermione, "definitely. If it were merely contagious it wouldn't have spread nearly so quickly - it's not as though we get much wand to wand contact. We don't _fence_ with the wretched things. Or, most of us don't," she said in a superior tone, thinking despairingly of Ron.

"Ah, but we do _touch_ them," pointed out Neville. "And then there'd be hand to hand contact, door-handles, taps - all sorts of places where a virus could be transferred. And we haven't discounted the possibility of spores – either free-floating, or carried on our clothes or hair…"

Hermione stopped twiddling her hair and glanced nervously down at her empty hand…

"Or we could be carriers," went on Neville gloomily. "We could all have inhaled the 'germs', pathogens - whatever you want to call them - and be breathing them out all round the castle…"

"Great! So our wands have got some bug," said Harry, trying to get back into the conversation, which seemed to be degenerating into a two-way debate on the spread of infection. "What do we do about it? Wash them? Dip them in disinfectant? Put them to bed with a warm drink? What?"

"We're not talking about a common or garden dose of Chizpurfles here, you know, Harry," said Hermione gravely. Neville shook his head.

They were both regarding him with the scornful, humouring pity normally reserved for Ron and his space quotations.

"Think it through, Harry," murmured Hermione.

"Don't bloody patronise me!" he snapped, wondering what he'd missed that was so important.

"What _day_ is it today?" she prompted.

"Thursday. Why?"

"And tomorrow is?"

"Duh! Friday. So?"

"Yes, Friday. _The last day of term_. Tomorrow everybody is going home for the Christmas holidays. Just imagine what this 'bug' will do if it gets out into the wider wizarding community…"

"Oh, shit," said Harry, imagining only too vividly.

x x x

In the Slytherin dormitory, Draco Malfoy slept the satisfied, untroubled sleep of the accomplished saboteur. A watery yellow light bruised the darkness as dawn approached, and a shaft of pale gold crowned the blond head, sunk into soft pillows in carefree slumber. He twitched once, ducking down as a flight of seabirds swept across his cloudless dreams, heading south to more temperate minds, escaping the malice of winter, and he smiled at their passing. Then he rolled over, enfolding himself in the glorious mantle of success - this time he had _excelled_ himself - and it was a cosy, guilt-free, warm and fuzzy feeling.

Because, to be honest, he'd hadn't a fuckin' clue what crap it was he'd mixed in with Longbottom's crushed Bladder-wrack. It was just some slimy stuff he'd found in a pot on Sprout's shelf. He hadn't even read the label. Actually, now he thought about it, he wasn't sure it had even had a label. He'd spotted the row of gruesome, green jars when he nipped in to pinch the sample of fresh Shark-Lily, and it had seemed a sweet idea at the time. Good idea? Absolutely, outstandingly, Champagne-bubblingly **brilliant** idea, more like! It was all his vilest fantasies come true! The whole school was falling apart, the staff were at their wits' end, Hogwarts was magically helpless and he, Draco Malfoy, could take the credit, thank you very much. Thank you, thank you. He awarded himself a jewel encrusted 'Salazar's Snake' and took a gracious bow to the crowds of cheering fans…

If that blabber-mouthed herb-head, _Dungbottom_, hadn't been blathering on about his precious bulbs and roots, Draco would never have got the idea in the first place. But the Shark-Lily had potential - he'd recognised that from the very start. All he'd have to do was to engineer some reason for Snape to be observing Longbottom's cauldron at the crucial moment. And he hadn't even had to do that! They'd more or less done it themselves! Surely it was fate? Get past the wards into Severus Snape's inner sanctum? Impossible? No problem! Not for Draco Malfoy!

And the slime stuff on Monday? Draco almost groaned out loud with pleasure at the memory. It was too good to be true. All he'd intended to do was make that fat gimp screw up his potion; it always made for excellent entertainment to get Snape screaming at the Gryffindors; and besides, Longbottom virtually had a sign on his Dunce's cap saying 'Piss-takers welcome'. Yeah, he had Hexed the wand, as a bit of an added bonus - how was he to know that twit would drop it into the cauldron? _And_ then go fishing for it? Oh, priceless! Bravo! Spot-on, Malfoy! Good show!

And since then, the school had gone crazy. He didn't know what he'd started, or how, but it was truly magnificent. His Dad had wanted 'disturbance' and 'mayhem' - well, he'd sure as hell got it.

He'd got his bloody bird back too. Damn thing. Draco's hands were gouged raw where the Bonxie had pecked out with his razor sharp, hooked beak. Merlin knows how his father had trained him at all! Draco didn't want to think about it. The idea of Lucius devoting painstaking hours, and all his residual magic, to instilling a basic homing discipline into that raucous gull, sickened him. The indignity of it! The _desperation_…

He'd gone directly to the Owlery from Snape's office, once he'd shaken off Granger and her side-kick. The Great Skua had pushed Pig off the ledge where he usually huddled - the Little Owl's talons were too tiny to grip the perches - and was 'roosting' there, fat and heavy after four days of no exercise and free fish. It uttered a warning 'tuc-tuc' and eyed Draco with beady malevolence. Sticking his arm out in the traditional summoning position (and wishing he'd worn a gauntlet) Draco gave a low whistle. If seagulls could spit, this charmer would have gobbed a beauty then and there - he had no respect for the thin, white, young human.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Draco had tried playing 'nice', but he hadn't got all day. He whipped out his wand and zapped the bird with a light _Stupefy_! The spell was in no hurry. It meandered upwards through the night, a ripple of invisible unconsciousness, swaying through the air, looping about the fascinated bird, and finally wrapping round it like a shawl. In a stupor, the Skua tilted off the ledge and, spinning slowly, drifted to the ground at Draco's feet.

"Stupid wand," muttered the boy, "if you're not careful you'll be sent back to Ollivander's for a re-bore." The silly thing still worked, after a fashion, but Draco was sick of all his spells being so _'twirly'_…

Very carefully, he put his wand to his forehead, extracted the glistening, spangled silver strands of stolen thought, and transferred them to the stunned bird. The factual information was more stringy, still gossamer thin, but strong as elven silk; the happy thoughts mere dancing wisps. Who would have supposed that Snape would have had happy thoughts? And why did he keep them in the Pensieve? Was happiness a secret to be ashamed of, or something too valuable to lose, too precious to share?

They were memories of Hogwarts in the days before the rise of Voldemort, when Lucius had been Snape's mentor at school. The boys had been friends; these were joint recollections. There were powerful, positive feelings: friendship, admiration, gratitude. They would be Lucius' adopted thoughts soon, sustaining him through despair when all other joy had been sucked from his soul.

"_Enervate!"_ The Skua squawked balefully as the spell wobbled into it, and then launched into the air with an angry screech. Wings beating frantically, it plunged and swooped round the tower, diving at Draco, striking out at him as though he were a trespassing Cormorant, and then rising again in a flapping panic, crazed by the matrix of alien ideas piggy-backing his brain.

Then it had soared out into the December night.

X X X

"Hadn't we better tell someone about this wand bug? Shouldn't we go and see Dumbledore?" Harry insisted. He'd almost said "or Snape", but it seemed a bit like 'running to daddy'. Not cool. "Everybody should be told, really. They have a right to know."

"Yes, but…" Neville raised a mild protest.

"Oh, I should have known there'd be a 'but'. There's always a 'but'. What is it this time? What haven't you told me now?" Harry felt that the other two were way ahead of him in their analysis of the situation and its possible ramifications and consequences.

"Well, for one thing, if we've worked it out this far, don't you think the staff will have too? They're not daft," said Hermione.

"They're not herbologists, either though," Neville reminded her.

"True. The problem is, Harry, we're not exactly sure about the next bit. Neville says there's such a thing as a 'devolutionary virus'…"

"I'd hardly make it up!" remonstrated Neville.

"Alright then, if you're so clever. You explain it to Harry!" The lack of sleep was beginning to tell on Hermione; she was getting short-tempered.

"It's like this, Harry. Think about the peculiar things that have been going off when we're doin' a spot of magic - what sort of pattern emerges? Do they have anything in common? As you said, we've got Ron and Ginny, and your wand burning up, and mine as sticky as if I keep it in a tub of treacle, and Hermione here with her hose-pipe…"

"You've not seen my latest accomplishment, have you?" Hermione gave an anaemic laugh. "Watch!"

Pointing her wand directly at another of the comfortable chairs she called out,

_"Incendio!"_

Harry cringed, waiting for the chair to explode into a fireball that would ignite the entire Common Room. Instead, a fountain of yellow, watery drops whooshed from the tip of her wand, soaking half the room in a shower of soft rain.

"Crikey!"

"Daresay I might have predicted that: what would you expect from _Laburnum watereri Vossii_, springy, with an Augurey feather core? Double-whammy. That wand couldn't right well do anything else," Neville pronounced, sounding scholarly and authoritative now that he was back in plant territory. "It's her wand, Harry! It's made of Laburnum wood. Do you know what the common gardeners' name is for Laburnum? No? Golden Rain!"

Harry didn't understand completely yet, but he sensed he was on the threshold of something momentous.

"Recognise this?" Neville held out a familiar stick, eleven inches long, and supple...

"That's my wand!" cried Harry. "But it can't be! There was nothing left of it but ashes. Where did you get it? Hey! Don't tell me this has been some huge wind-up all along? Did you nick it, and shove cinders in my pocket? Are you both in on this? Why - "

"It was on your bedside table, when I woke you up this morning," said Neville stolidly, ignoring the accusations. "Try it - see if it works. But, I wouldn't use _Incendio_, if I were you, just in case…"

Harry took the wand gingerly. It felt smooth and warm, and his fingers tingled with incipient magic as he gripped it more tightly. The memory of his lacerated hand, beaded with blood, stayed him: what if it happened again? Did he want to go through that _again_?

_"Accio cushion!"_ he exclaimed, shutting his eyes and tensing his fist, waiting for the pain to begin. The feather-stuffed pad hit him with sufficient force to knock him backwards.

"Here, have a cushion!" he grinned at Hermione.

And then it finally clicked. Harry stared at his new wand, _re-born_ _from the ashes_, with awe.

"Holly, with a Phoenix feather core!" he murmured.

"By 'eck!" cried Neville. "I think he's got it!"

"You make it sound like '_My Fair Lady.'_" Hermione smiled.

"Let me get this straight," said Harry, suddenly sharing their excitement. "The Holly minced my hand, and the Phoenix core incinerated _and_ regenerated my wand? So, when Neville talks about the 'devolutionary' thingy he means that the virus is making our wands behave like the wood they were originally made from…"

"It's rather more complicated than that." Hermione tried to clarify. "From what we've seen, the wands are showing a tendency to manifest attributes of the parent tree. Like the twins, in sick bay? Well, their wands wouldn't have had pine cones growing out of them, would they? However…"

Harry sighed. Life was never simple.

"…however, depending on their magical component, the wands may distort or exaggerate those attributes; or in other cases it looks as though the magical core is dominant. Some wands seem to be 'sicker' than others; some only go funny when a spell is cast, while others - like Ron's - seem to have a continuous effect. Some simply create foliage or branches every time they're used. It may be that the virus is mutating, or it may just affect different wands in different ways. That's why we're compiling the list showing everybody's wand wood and magical element - it'll back up the theory if we can prove there's a pattern. Can we just double-check, by the way - Ron's new wand, what is it?"

"Willow," Harry replied, "Weeping Willow, with a Unicorn tail hair core."

"He's lucky he hasn't grown a bloody great horn," said Neville. "Or a tail!"

"And Ginny's?"

"I'm not so sure about that. I wouldn't swear to it, but I think I remember her saying it was -"

"Firethorn?" butted-in Neville, testing his theory. Harry nodded in amazement.

"And mine," said Neville, "as you might have guessed by now, is Maple wood with Acromantula silk. Both awfully sticky! It's been a blessed nuisance, I must say - my cloak pocket's like a right pot of jam."

"Don't worry about that." Suddenly Harry was much more cheerful. Having his wand back made him feel whole again. "If I can do magic, then I can cure everybody else, can't I? Give us your wand, Nev."

Doubtfully, Neville handed it over.

"What do I say?" asked Harry, less confident now.

"Start with a normal Healing Spell," suggested Hermione, "and if that doesn't work, we can try Extraction or Banishment or Exorcism, or… There must be a Kill Viral Pathogen spell somewhere."

Harry prised Neville's wand from the table where it had welded itself like an abandoned Sugar Quill, and aimed.

"_Virgammedico! Deputresco!_ _Expellimorbum!_"

And so on. After each attempt, Neville hopefully pointed it at the log-basket, and pronounced, "_Accio stick_", and each time the logs unhelpfully transfigured themselves into chunky sticks of pink and white striped seaside rock, with the name Longbottom running through them in multi-coloured candy lettering.

"Oh, call it a day, Harry. Otherwise Neville'll have to open a sweet shop," sighed Hermione, dispirited. "It was worth a try."

They stared at each other, despondently.

Harry was thinking back to their original question, before they had become bogged down in explanations. What earthly relevance could James Potter have to the current crisis?

"It's no big deal," Hermione yawned. "It's for the list. Professor McGonagall's under sedation, so we won't be able to ask her about her wand."

"Nope. I'm still not with you. Where does James fit in?"

"It's a bit of a long shot… What was James' best subject at school? Transfiguration, right? And didn't Remus or somebody tell us that James' wand was specially suited for it? Isn't that why he was such a fantastic Animagus? We thought there was an off-chance that McGonagall might have something similar. Well, can you remember, Harry, what it was?"

Harry could. In the days when he believed James to be his father he had gleaned every scrap of information about him, and treasured them all…

"Mahogany."

Hermione gasped and Neville, looking self-satisfied, chalked up an invisible mark in the air. He was ready to bet, too, that McGonagall's magical core was something to do with shy, dancing Mooncalves, if he could find any takers…

"And Snape's wand?" Hermione was busily filling-in the columns on her chart. It was almost a formality, but, even so, Harry became guarded. Wands were, after all, one's private property.

"I think that's his business, don't you? Why don't you ask him? But he may not tell you; he might not want you to know." He hedged, covering for Snape.

"Why ever not? God, he's a difficult so and so! It's just a wand, for goodness' sake! That would be just like him - being bloody-minded for the sheer hell of it. I'm sorry, Harry, I know he's your father and everything, but I've just about had it up to here - " - she touched her forehead in a shaky salute – " - with that man. It's not my fault that my hair's been thinking it's raining all the time!" she complained, with a hint of the Moaning Myrtles. She hadn't forgiven Snape's insult.

Harry grimaced. He'd always tried to avoid girls when they were tired, weepy or grumbling about their hair, clothes or figures. It had worked for him so far. But he could hardly avoid Hermione now.

"I think he quite likes you really - he respects your 'mental acuity'." He tried to placate her, using one of Snape's own phrases. The girl huffed:

"Huh. Funny way of showing it."

Neville had been sitting quietly for a while, thoughtfully tapping the end of his wand against his teeth and giving it the occasional lick. Little frowns and tics scudded across his face like clouds on a blustery day, as he worked and worried at the facts before him. Like examining a diseased plant specimen, he picked at scab and rot, peeling away layers of deadwood 'til he reached the true, unblemished heart of the matter.

"Snape can't keep it a secret for ever. It's bound to come out sooner or later. Anyway, it's not as though it's a crime," he commented, revealing a depth of knowledge and understanding that took Harry by surprise. Neville met his gaze steadily.

"If I can hazard a guess, Harry, so can others. Snape's wand - it's _Rosewood_, isn't it?"

Dumbly, Harry nodded. It felt like a betrayal.

From her comfy chair, Hermione absorbed this with wide, bush-baby eyes, instantly grasping the implication. She wasn't the brightest student in the school for nothing.

"But that means - ?" she gasped.

"Yes."

The use of pure Rosewood in wand-making was traditionally and strictly reserved for wizards of Veela descent. The wood itself was not remarkable in its appearance - it might easily be mistaken for teak or cherry or any of a number of tropical hardwoods, so Snape's secret had remained safe within its fine, French-polished grain. Until now.

"Could be awkward. He won't want that coming out in public," suggested Neville.

"No," Harry agreed, not knowing whether to explain about Snape's family or maintain the enigma. As though by tacit consent, none of them mentioned the term 'Veela'.1

A wave of contrition had slammed into Hermione so hard that she was shocked, and could only murmur,

"Oh, that poor man! No wonder he's been in such a state!"

And Harry had known about this all along. For _how long_, she wondered? She watched him now, wrestling with friendship and the conflicting demands of this other - what was it? - duty? obligation? love? There was so much more going on between those two - Harry and Snape - than you would ever imagine from the cool, blasé way they behaved towards one another. How many more secrets was Harry obediently keeping on his father's behalf? How had Snape won him over? Whatever could the man have done to deserve or inspire such loyalty?

She had always done her best to encourage Harry to accept his relationship with Snape, even when his actions struck her as unnecessarily harsh or unpleasant - family bonds had to transcend petty grievances. She acknowledged that the Potions master had certain qualities: she could tell, for example, that, in his own undemonstrative way, he cared about Harry; but sometimes – like today - she still found his behaviour intolerably cruel, his manner rude and offensive. She was going to have to make more of an effort to like Snape - for Harry's sake. Perhaps over Christmas she would get to know him a little better…

"So you see, Harry, we couldn't just rush about blurting out my theory - _people_ could have got upset." Neville was still talking. He could be tactful when he wanted to. "You'd better go and see him… explain things." This seemed an ideal solution to Neville - a dragon-avoidance tactic.

From the dormitory upstairs came the heavy, lumbering thumps of adolescent footsteps. Harry glanced at his watch.

"Hell, if that lazy lot are getting up, it means the rest of the school will all be in breakfast by now… Give me a second to get dressed, Neville. We'll have to try and catch Snape in Hall."

Up in his room he placed his wand back into his cloak pocket, almost reverently.

"Welcome back," he whispered.

X X X

In the skies above the Pentland Firth, a plump, puffing Great Skua was winging through the morning mists, heading out across the North Sea towards Shetland, to the islands, and home to his nest on the rocky ledge in the wall of the prison fortress of Azkaban.

X X X

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: DISCOVERIES. The wands run riot, and the pressure is on Neville to save the day…**

1. Snape's Veela connection is discussed in 'Snape's Confession', chapter 4. I haven't made it a major issue here, just another complication in the mix.


	7. Discoveries

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 7 : DISCOVERIES**

Tuesday 19th December

The scene in the Great Hall reminded Harry of something out of the Goblin riots of 1752. Chairs and tables were overturned, pushed back towards the walls in defensive barricades; the centre of the Hall was a bleak no-man's land, littered with the wreckage of broken furniture, plates, glass and cutlery, hurriedly abandoned or thrown and left lying where they fell. There was _wood_ everywhere: great Beech branches ripped, jagged-ended, from limbless trunks; Willow twigs in long, flailing whips, an Autumn avalanche of leaves, spiky Hawthorn stems, bark shards in chunky, ridged Oak knobbles or curling, green and white Silver Birch peelings; entire Holly _boughs_, prickly with their sharp, glossy, evergreen foliage were strewn anyhow, wrenched down from their seasonal posts on ledge and mantle. Deck the Halls? Fa-la-la!

It was as though a tornado had torn through the Forbidden Forest, wreaking woody havoc, or the Whomping Willow, uprooted, unshackled, had embarked on a devastating spree of destruction.

The visibility in the Hall was poor. It was dim, murky, shrouded. A dismal, grey, morning light loitered by the bare windows, still starkly undraped after Peeves' stripping, but it seemed unwilling to penetrate the gloom. The floating candles had all been extinguished, save one or two, very high up near the ceiling, which twinkled bravely like solitary stars in an empty universe. The air was thick and scratchy. As Harry's eyes accustomed to the darkness, he could see low bonfires of smouldering brush, the green-wood spitting and hissing, and trails of acrid smoke drifting to the rafters.

After a momentary lull in hostilities occasioned by the opening of the door, the bombardment recommenced. A barrage of small missiles shot across the room, ricocheting off the upturned trestles; the returning salvo peppered the walls. Attack and counter attack: the fusillade whizzed and whirred; a blitz of ammunition rained down from an overhead assault, and the air crackled with tiny, plosive pops.

"Missed!"

"Gotcha!"

"Take that!"

"Take _this_, and weep!"

From time to time a louder explosion sent a blast of sound shocking through the Hall, followed by silence and then cheers and sporadic applause.

Dodging and weaving to avoid the strafing, ducking the flak, Harry, Hermione and Neville made a charge to the far end of the room where the bounds of High Table appeared to be neutral territory. A few conscientious objectors were there, resolutely eating their breakfast, their expressions prim and self-righteous. Another group of peace-niks watched from the sidelines, disapproving, but grimly enthralled. There was no sign, as yet, of the staff.

"What the hell's going on?" Harry yelled, above the din.

Rather than answer, Hermione tipped out her pockets. A pile of nuts, fir cones, wood-chips, galls and berries fell to the floor. Just then a cannonade of bristly sweet-chestnuts shelled them from the right flank.

"Oi!" bellowed Harry, "_Pax_! Cut it out! We're non-combatant here!"

Neville went round the table solemnly gathering up the napkins and, stuck forks into them to make a dozen flags. He handed them out to the eating 'civilians', not bothering to ask whether they were pacifists or just very hungry, and they wedged the fork-handles into a crack in the table, the white damask squares waving a silent, non-violent protest.

About half the school was there, mostly manning the barricades or sheltering behind up-ended benches or the trestle barriers. The other half, Hermione estimated, were probably in the hospital wing or confined to bed - no one would have missed this beano voluntarily. Holding her clip-board in front of her like a riot-shield she announced,

"I'm going in!"

"Are you mad? That's the 'front-line'. There are maniacs out there firing nuts. They'll shoot you!"

She tossed back her massive hair and squared her shoulders.

"I am a Prefect. They wouldn't dare! And, if they do, I've got the water-cannon!" She raised her wand with a haughty flourish and strode down into the action...

Neville knelt down and began to examine the pile of nuts, sorting them by species. Harry watched Hermione's retreating figure until she was swallowed in the shadows by the Slytherin table, then he shrugged and helped himself to some toast.

A few minutes later Hermione was back to file her report.

"Ron's over there," she pointed, "but he says his eyes are too sore for him to aim properly. He's really cross." She consulted her list, where she'd filled-in a lot of the blanks. "OK. What've we got? Well, Seamus is one of the ring-leaders - he's got a _Chestnut_ wand with an _Erumpent Tail_ core. Quite an explosive combination. Says he's got a range of at least twenty yards with the heavier conkers. And Dean is almost as bad: er, _English Oak_ with _Firecrab shell_. He seems to be able to shoot red-hot acorns. On the other side, Crabbe's got an _Ash_ wand, and his core is, um, wait a minute… …oh, _Clabbert Horn_. I don't know if that's relevant or not, but he's the one setting fire to everything. And Goyle says his is _Rowan_ - he's firing berries like red bullets, but he seems to be burning stuff too…"

"Mountain Ash," said Neville, helpfully. "Rowan is another name for it."

Hermione was too engrossed in her list to be piqued by being corrected.

"Then there are several Hufflepuff hostages behind the Christmas tree, tied up with some kind of vine and Acromantula silk. I'd steer clear of Terry Boot, if I were you - he's _Box_ with _Re'em hide_ - but he's pretty much out of control and he's quite likely to thump you. The Re'em's acting like some sort of a strengthening spell."

She stopped speaking as a deafening siren sounded and an ark-light raked round the room, a shaft of paler grey cutting through the haze.

"Oh yes, that'll be Anthony Goldstein - _Hornbeam_, you know. Now then, Neville, here's another one for you: Euan Abercrombie told me his wand is something called _Styrax_, but he's not sure what that is. It's making him awfully cold though and he's got a dreadful ringing in his ears - I was trying to persuade him to come up here near the fire. Well?"

"Styrax? Um, deciduous, native to China and Japan, greyish bark, long, ovate leaves, clusters of white bell-shaped flowers… Oh, yeah, some people call it the _Snowbell Tree_."

Hermione continued to comb through her list.

"There's a virtual pine forest of Firs, Spruces and Larches, with the occasional Cypress, over near the portrait of Burdock Muldoon. They're nearly all second and third years - goodness knows why that should be. They seem to be supplying most of the ammunition. Pucey's wand - damn, I haven't written down what it is; I know he told me - has turned into a kind of bazooka thing, and he's firing-off fir cones like there's no tomorrow. Malfoy's, I think, is a _Sycamore_ - he started to tell me and then he changed his mind for some reason and told me to 'piss-off' instead. Charming! That's all I've managed to get so far. I'll have to - "

The grand double doors at the far end of the Hall swung open, signalling an immediate, guilty ceasefire. Professor Dumbledore, at the head of the entire staff (minus McGonagall and Sprout) stepped into the war zone. The undergrowth and fallen branches parted before him like the Red Sea. In absolute silence the group marched to High Table. Behind the barricades, the ranks struggled upright and stood stiffly to attention, awaiting Court-Martial. Dumbledore mounted the platform and, peering over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, surveyed the assembled school. His expression was severe.

"Children! Students! We are, I fear, late for breakfast!"

A shuffle of relief amongst the crowd. The Headmaster's gaze systematically took in the damaged furniture, the vandalised Christmas tree, the destroyed decorations, the botanical carnage.

"It appears that out Yuletide festivities have begun a little early," he said. He lifted his wand as though, in a single wave, to set the room to rights, and then, regretfully, lowered it again. "You will assist each other in restoring the tables to their rightful positions, and then you will all eat. After breakfast I wish to inform you of a matter of grave concern."

At once the hall erupted into a flurry of activity; chairs scraped, benches banged. Susan Bones ('_Broom_ with _Invisible Flying-Fox brush'_) conjured a Sweeping Spell to clear the floor.

"Sir? Professor Dumbledore, Sir?" Hermione, Neville and Harry edged forwards as the headmaster took his seat, spreading out his 'peace flag' on his lap. The other teachers were also sitting down, uprooting their napkins in bemusement (Trelawney), amusement (Remus) or annoyance… Snape was looking at Harry. Sensing it, the boy turned his head and their eyes met, full tilt, clashing with an almost physical impact that jolted through his whole body. Observing them, Hermione noticed Snape cock an enquiring eyebrow and Harry, in reply, flex the fingers of his right hand and give a quick, imperceptible thumbs-up. The dark eyes flashed again, and then Snape was talking to Flitwick, seemingly oblivious to the presence of his son.

Hermione sighed deeply. She knew that Quig, Snape's house elf, was deaf, but did they _all_ communicate in sign language? If so, it was going to be an extremely quiet Christmas!

"Ahem!" Tonc-tonc! Dumbledore coughed and tapped his wand against a butter-dish to attract the attention of his staff. "If you could be so good as to gather round. I think you should all hear what our Mr Longbottom has to say."

Snape looked as though he had a few choice things to say to Longbottom himself, but he moved closer and, after listening for some minutes to Neville's rambling explanation, his sceptical sneer developed into a frown - but a thoughtful one.

Hermione became aware that Harry, opposite her, was fidgeting, trying to catch Neville's eye, making frantic 'shut-up' and 'cut-throat' signs. Longbottom expounded his subject doggedly, from fungal samples to contaminated potion to suspected viral infection and, seemingly, back to mouldy wands again, with forays into experiments with fungicide and medi-herbal treatments.

"It's not as though it's going to respond to Permethrin or DDT or Doxycide," he said, "and besides - " He saw Harry and faltered, stammered. " – b-besides, that's as far as we've got," he ended rather hurriedly. "I wasn't going to _tell_ them," he whispered in self-defence as Harry rounded on him.

Then Dumbledore was on his feet, speaking.

"Well done, Neville. That is a most valuable piece of research and deductive reasoning. It does you credit, my boy. We may well find that we call on your advice on certain botanical issues, especially in the unfortunate absence of Professor Sprout. We will defer to your herbological experience, Mr Longbottom!"

Neville blushed pinkly with pleasure; Snape looked aghast at the thought.

"Interesting though that may be," went on the Headmaster in a more sorrowful tone, "it does not, I'm afraid, negate the news I have to announce. Attention everyone, please!"

An expectant hush fell over the Hall.

"It cannot have escaped your notice that the school has been experiencing one or two magical _irregularities_ over the last few days."

Someone tittered.

"And - purely as a precautionary measure, you understand – I have decided to take an unprecedented step. To prevent the accidental use of mis-magic, I will be confiscating your wands until further notice… _Expelliarmus!_"

A low retaining-wall comprising several rows of ornamental brickwork in a herring-bone pattern with upright 'soldier' coping stones, materialised on the floor in front of High Table.

"_Walnut_," breathed Neville into Hermione's ear. "I bet you."

"Ah. Oh dear me. Well, well… In that case Professor Lupin will _collect_ your wands," the Headmaster amended. "Remus, if you don't mind…"

Ripples of protest grumbled through the room.

"Furthermore," Dumbledore had not finished. He stroked his long beard and, unusually, looked to the other members of staff for moral support. "I am sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, especially at this joyful season. We have, er, received instructions from the Ministry of Magic that, until we have a clearer understanding of the nature of the problem, Hogwarts is _in quarantine_…"

He paused to let this sink in. But there was no significant rise in the level of demur, and he realised that the implications of his words were not clear.

"This will mean, I regret to say, that unless a solution to the problem is discovered in the next twenty-four hours, you will all be unable to return home for Christmas…"

Now there was no mistaking the objections. The news hit the younger students hardest - several of the first years were inconsolable, and had to be taken up to their dormitories by long-suffering prefects, who were themselves trying, with mixed success, to put a brave face on their own distress.

Malfoy shared the general disappointment, but with an additional cause. _Foiled! At the last minute, and by that fossilized old fogey. Draco had been monitoring the unfolding crisis with a burgeoning delight. To think that he was responsible for all this chaos! A simple practical joke had, under its own mouldy momentum, grown into what (he flattered himself to think) might have been the greatest threat to wizard-kind since the rise of the Dark Lord. Forewarned, the Death Eaters would be able to discover some antidote to protect their own wands, while the rest of the unsuspecting wizard world watched their own powers disintegrate… Damn Dumbledore! For either way, Malfoy's plot was now doomed: if they cured the magic, he'd failed; if the kids were quarantined in Hogwarts, he'd failed. Oh well, he thought philosophically, you win some, you lose some… …and he **had** got into that Pensieve…_

Under cover of the universal upset, Malfoy slunk out of the Hall, heading (for reasons best known to himself) towards Hagrid's Hut.

x x x

There were two people in the room who received Dumbledore's announcement with equanimity. Though they scarcely admitted it to themselves, and certainly not to each other, Harry and Hermione could both see distinct advantages in being detained at Hogwarts for Christmas…

X X X

"And what exactly were you '_not going to tell'_ us, Mr Longbottom?" Snape barred their way as the three turned to join the Gryffindors at table. Harry remembered Neville's indignant whisper and, too late, his father's ability to lip-read. With a hunter's instinct, Snape had isolated the weakest member of the group, and brought him down with a single, sharp question. Neville's resolution stumbled, kicked weakly and then rolled over, belly up.

"About the list, Sir. We were going to talk to you about it last night, Sir, but you were asleep, so we did more experiments, and Hermione's been making a list…" Neville blurted, infuriatingly incoherent.

"A list? Miss Granger, I hardly think that now is the time to be getting up a _petition_. Show me."

With great misgiving she handed over her clipboard. Snape scanned the names, flicking through the pages, noting the information in each separate column. Once or twice his eyes slid from the paper to the timber-yard litter in the Hall - the irrefutable, corroborative evidence - and then back to the damning list. When he reached his own name, his face paled. He directed his fury at Harry.

"How _dare_ you!" Outrage had stolen his voice; the words were pure anger, unadulterated by sound.

"Sir! It was me, Sir. I guessed it. Harry never let on. He wouldn't, Sir. I could be wrong, Sir, couldn't I? I mean, I usually am…" Neville made a brave stab at nobility, wishing that, in denial of the facts, he _were_ wrong this time. He would give anything _not_ to know incriminating information about the Potions master. The man hated him quite enough already.

"We wanted to talk to you in private, Sir, but -" Hermione stopped. A bumbly droning sound just behind her - Professor Dumbledore's humming rendition of '_Good King Wenceslas'_ – told her that the Headmaster had joined them.

"A capital idea! Wouldn't you agree, Severus? Let us adjourn to my office - it is so much more agreeable than yours - and we can discuss the matter more fully. A little privacy may be no bad thing."

X X X

"I was impressed before, Mr Longbottom, but now I see that those were merely your _preliminary findings_…" Professor Dumbledore had a wonderful way of glossing over one's misdeeds, if he thought there were bigger issues at stake. "And it is gratifying to discover that your evidence supports our own tentative hypotheses. Is it not, Severus?"

This elicited a grudging 'Indeed' from Snape, who was standing at the window with his back to the room, unable as yet to enter a discussion in which his private affairs would be publicly exhumed.

The confiscated wands, tied in neat bundles of twelve, lay on the floor like sets of chopsticks or asparagus spears, depending on whether or not the wand wood was sprouting. They looked harmless enough.

"Come now, Severus. A little more faith in the _discretion_ of these children would not go amiss… It is my impression that they have acted with most admirable restraint. Don't you agree?"

"Indeed."

_Snape could hardly concur when, all about him, the walls of his privacy were crumbling like Jericho. They had been breached before - Harry had found a way through his defences - but he had shored them up, contained the damage. And now another hole had been blasted right through and the invading hordes were scrambling up the rubble, ready to trample through his life with their filthy hob-nailed boots and prying eyes._

"Severus?" the Headmaster repeated. Hermione, who had been drifting slightly, lulled by the warmth and the relief of having finally shared their discovery, glanced up, surprised at the gentleness in the old man's voice. It seemed incongruous for Dumbledore to be addressing Snape in that tone. Snape swung round.

"Admirable," he conceded coolly, jettisoning his precious seclusion into a municipal skip. Dumbledore's whiskers lifted encouragingly in what might have been a smile.

"Severus, it may still be possible to preserve the confidentiality of that list. It seems that we can now establish the _cause_ of the problem - it is a shame we were unaware of the full extent of Mr Longbottom's herbological research, though you, Severus, if I recall, did have your suspicions. And we have all seen the _effect_… And now, it behoves us, as a matter of urgency, to find a _cure_.

"I suggest that you and these three - ah, alas, Miss Granger is asleep-"

"We've been up all night," Neville admitted.

" - these _two _entrepreneurs, get your heads together…"

"You'd better count me out - I'm crap at Herbology. I'm pretty duff at Potions too," Harry interjected. Then, correctly interpreting Snape's scowl, he changed tune, "but I'll help out if I can."

"…and, if I may finish my sentence, _discover a miracle cure_ before the departure of the Hogwarts Express tomorrow afternoon."

X X X

They toiled through the morning, through lunch, testing every antidote, fungicide and pesticidal potion known to wizardry. By mid-afternoon the Greenhouse was verdant with their failures. After a particularly violent hazelnut hailstorm, Neville sorted through the wand-bundles until he found Hannah Abbott's wand (_Umbrella Pine_ with spell-repellent _Graphorn Hide_) after which he and Snape could work together in comparative shelter.

"By 'eck, this is hopeless!" Neville couldn't help exclaiming as their latest experiment with a systemic cellular strengthening solution had yielded a cannonball conker with a shell spiked like a WWII land-mine. "What do we do now, Sir? Go back to the basics and start again with bezoar and Mandrake juice?"

Snape regarded the dishevelled, dirty, exhausted boy. He was not a quitter, he'd give him that. He'd expected Longbottom to give up hours ago, but the lad had plodded on with the work, methodical and pedestrian, laboriously thorough, painfully so - but he had stuck at it. Snape was, he had to admit it, impressed. Harry's patience had long since worn thin, and for the past forty minutes or so, he had been amusing himself by dropping aphids, Frit Fly maggots and wireworms into a jar of Streeler slime, and watching them shrivel.

The door of the Greenhouse shuddered open, rattling on its runners as it slid sideways, letting in the weather and a horsy figure dressed for walking in thick tweeds and a deer-stalker hat.

"Oh, it's only you, Snape. Saw the light on. Thought for a mo' it might be Pomona. Came to take a decko. Still no news?"

Professor Grubbly-Plank's 'county' boom shook the window panes. Four dog leads strained from her right fist and out into the sallow afternoon. In the few seconds she had been talking, they had twined and plaited like Maypole ribbons until she was left clutching a single, twisted, leather line which she played, tensing and relaxing her arm as though she had a Red Marlin on the end and not four energetic Crups.

"Dashed dawgs!" She gave a throaty snort as one of them came spinning in through the doorway, chasing his tail, winding himself in to the shortest limit of the leash. "Don't know what's got into 'em today. Sometimes I could just Hex the little rascals!" She gave the dizzy Crup an affectionate nudge with her boot and it somersaulted back outside, yelping.

"Looks like someone already did," said Harry.

Professor Grubbly-Plank didn't waste her breath on niceties.

"You, boy - " She addressed Harry. "Strikes me you're about as much use here as a Shrake in a sandstorm. What say you give me a hand, walking these here Crups? If that's all the same to you, Snape?"

It clearly was **not** all the same to Snape.

"**I** will decide whether or not Potter's presence is useful, Professor," he replied, sourly. "But, if you are unable to manage the creatures _on your own_, then I will allow him to assist you…"

Their egos squared-up; it was a stand-off. Then Grubbly-Plank checked her watch.

"Ha! Haven't got time for this tomfoolery! You're a rum bugger, Snape - I enjoy our little spats. Yes, I could use the boy…"

She unravelled two squirming Crups and handed the leads to Harry.

"Fancy a tramp round the lake, boy? Best foot forward!"

X X X

Neville was left alone in the Greenhouse with Snape. There was not another living person in sight, in screaming distance even. It was his worst nightmare. It was worse than his worst nightmare - it was Snape!

Neville was very, very tired; he couldn't remember when he had last eaten; he had run out of ideas about the wands and yet everyone seemed to be looking to _him_ for a solution; he was stuck here with the man he had accidentally poisoned the previous day, who had probably no intention of _ever_ forgiving him; and, if he didn't come up with an answer, he and the entire school would be forced to stay at Hogwarts all Christmas. _It was all too much…_

A large, round tear rolled down the side of his nose.

"Longbottom?" Snape could see that the boy needed a break.

"I… I'm sorry, Sir," Neville snuffled. Another tear welled and he was too tired to stop it. "It's just that…"

At this moment the misery became unbearable; it was swelling in his chest, pressing on his lungs, his throat, strangling him with helpless grief. He had to let it out or he would burst.

"It's just that I always go… ..to visit my parents at Christmas…"

He went every year, every holiday. He went willingly, dreading it. It was a duty, an obligation, a torture. He went to visit them in St Mungo's. He hated it. He hated seeing them like that, seeing what they had become, what they had lost. He hated them for not dying, for leaving him with the responsibility of loving them. He loved them so much, and that love tore at his heart until he hated himself too.

"Sorry… sorry, Sir," Neville sniffed. The next tear dripped into the corner of his mouth and he caught it on his tongue. "They… she… …she _recognises_ me… I _know_ she does. It's hard, Sir, seeing her like that…"

_I know, thought Snape. Oh, I know... A sultry, smooth-throated voice murmured in his mind; a crème brulée voice, rich and sensual but cracking to the sharp, crazed bitterness of a maddened hag: "Severus, mon fils!" ('My son!')__1_

"Longbottom," he said. "Tiredness will result in inefficiency and inaccuracy. Go back to the castle and get something to eat. Have a rest. Return only when you are capable of constructive thought."

Neville just stood there, gulping lumpy breaths, waiting for the next sentence - the one about imbeciles and detentions and being a disgrace to the wizard world.

"Go on, boy," said Snape, not unkindly. "And, Longbottom - " he added as Neville shuffled past him, picking his way over the leafy debris, "_they_ would have been proud of you today…"

X X X

Outside a sudden frenzy of barking snapped at the shabby heels of the afternoon. They heard shouting, exclamations and then footsteps, urgent running feet.

"Sir! Sir!" It was Harry calling. Fear. Desperation. "Come quickly, Sir!" Harry was out of breath, panting. "We - we've found Professor Sprout!"

She was in the Herb Garden, unearthed, her squat, bulbous body lying on the freshly turned soil like a giant potato. Behind her, the four Crups, frantically yapping, were scrabbling with mindless, doggy enthusiasm at a deep depression in the newly dug ground. Professor Grubbly-Plank was on her knees, brushing mud off Sprout's face, tenderly wiping it out of her eyes and mouth.

"Come on, Pomona. Come on, dear. Don't do this to us. Wake up now."

"Alive?" Snape ran up to them. Grubbly-Plank nodded.

"Barely. She's under some kind of _Petrificus_, but she's still breathing. She was buried… buried alive! Down there." She pointed grimly into the hole, where the Crups were still digging, sending spirals of dirt showering up and out behind them. Deep in the mud at the bottom Neville saw several tuberous, white shapes.

"Shark-Lily!"

"Evil plant! It's as bad as Devil's Snare. When is the Ministry of Magic going to see sense and re-classify it? That's what I'd like to know! I've a good mind to owl them. Damn stuff's downright dangerous!"

"In the wrong hands…" Snape commented with feeling. Neville looked away. The Potions master was heaving Sprout into a sitting position and, unable to conjure a stretcher without his wand, picked her up in a Fireman's lift.

"I'll take her to Pomfrey," he said, grunting with the effort of raising her dead-weight - for a small woman, Sprout was surprisingly heavy. "Harry, find Professor Dumbledore and ask him to meet us in the Hospital Wing. And Neville, can you prepare the ingredients for a Mandrake Restorative Draught - we're going to need it."

Swelling with pride, tiredness temporarily forgotten, Neville trotted off to the Potions dungeon.

**End of Chapter**

1 'My son' – For Snape's mother see Repercussions, Ch. 9, or Snape's Confession, Ch. 4

**Next Chapter: LUNA'S SOLUTION. She had to get in on the act somewhere... Neville and Hermione Vs Luna and Harry, eh? Are we talking Sense and Sensibility here?**


	8. Luna's Solution

**Author's note:**

**Thanks to everyone who has taken time out from their 'New Year' to read and review. A couple of things:**

**Vert: Do I invent words? Yes, occasionally, but not often. The only one I can think of off-hand is 'anagramatically', which crops up in a later chapter. 'Tosh' in this chapter is slang for 'rubbish'. I like playing with words; language is a living thing. Sorry - if you thought the last bit was crazy, I'm afraid it gets worse…**

**Silverthreads: As with the 'Ladybird/bug' comment, the reference to 'sick bay' Vs 'hospital wing' intrigued me. I have checked in the dictionary and it says that sick bay is 'an area, _as on a ship_, used as an infirmary', which I take to mean that it can be used in places other than _on board_ ship. I'm fairly sure that a lot of people would use the term interchangeably, and indeed, 'hospital wing' sounds (to me) more formal and a less natural thing to say. The fact of Britain's seafaring past means that a great deal of nautical terminology has passed directly into everyday parlance - this could be one such example. (I came across one the other day - I think it was '_at the end of my tether'_ – but don't quote me on that - which I had always assumed was to do with horses and ropes, but they say is about ships' anchor chains…) Or maybe I am so steeped in Star Trek lore (well, I used to be!) that I can longer distinguish between land and sea/space terms. But JKR uses 'hospital wing' (I'll have to check if she ever says 'sick bay' in the UK version. How, short of re-reading canon?) so I must defer to her authority. Thanks fora thought-provokingcomment. **

**Now onto Chapter 8.**

**What can I say? I am a sad soul who even checked the times of the Winter Solstice in 1996! Apologies in advance if I have blasphemed in my Druidic ceremony! (If you haven't read Repercussions, you need to know that Luna, in addition to her Celtic sympathies, is still obsessed by Sweden, after her holiday there the previous summer.)**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 8:LUNA'S SOLUTION**

Friday 20th December

"Hey, I've got a message for you, from Luna." Harry stuck his head into the Greenhouse. "Phew! Mind if I leave this open? It's steaming in here. Humid. Rank. It's worse than Ron's armpit."

Neville peered through the luxuriant foliage.

"Yes, we'vedeveloped a bit of a rainforest situation. Some of the tropical hardwoods are getting proper lush. What did she want? Why couldn't she come and tell me herself?"

Hermione popped out from beneath the staging, where she was lining up rows of small beakers containing an array of disinfectant solutions, weed-killers, tar-oil wash, methylated spirits, liquid Aspirin and anything else she could think of which might have an effect - _any_ effect. There was a wand poking out of each beaker.

"Oh, come off it, Neville, why do you think? She doesn't want to risk bumping into Snape. Haven't you noticed how she avoids him these days?"

Yesterday Neville would have sympathised with Luna wholeheartedly; today he considered her precautions somewhat excessive.

"So, what did our resident Celtic crack-pot say?" Hermione asked, without much interest. "Last time I saw her, she was moping about like some prophetess of doom, telling everyone that 'Ragnarok is nigh!'"

"Ragnarok?" Neville and Harry were equally lost.

"Oh, it's some kind of Nordic Apocalypse. You know, Swedish 'End of the World' stuff. Utter rubbish. Anyway, what was it this time? No, don't tell me. Let me guess - we're to have a lovely group hug and then dance round the wands in the moonlight, wearing lots of beads, praying to Cerridwen and then singing extracts from old Norse 'creation' sagas… She's a fraud, Harry - she can't even decide which cult to get sucked in by!"

Harry laughed. Yeah, Luna was a nut - ooh, bad pun under the circumstances, he told himself - but at least her barmy schemes might give Neville something else to think about. Something other than the fact that the whole school was waiting, trunks packed, for a train that they would not be allowed to catch - and blaming him.

"That's it, more or less. She said we should wait until Saturday and then get all this wood together and have a bonfire."

"Not such a bad idea." Neville wasn't really paying attention. He had snipped off the tip of a wand and was rotating it in a flame. A delicious smell of roast chestnuts permeated the greenhouse, making them feel hungry again, even though it wasn't that long since breakfast. Hermione, always suspicious where Luna was concerned, had been studying Harry.

"You're covering for her! I don't know why you bother. What else did she say? I suppose this _innocent_ bonfire of hers involves some kind of Yuletide ritual sacrifice. Human, was it? Is she volunteering? I wish she would."

Sweating uncomfortably, hot and embarrassed, Harry began to peel off his jumper.

"You're so mean about Luna. OK, so she did mention something about symbolic logs and making some kind of 'offering' and a 'celebration of cosmic fertility'…"

"Told you!" Hermione felt vindicated. Luna was a self-deceiving, dotty Druid, but Harry couldn't see it…

Neville didn't understand the 'down' that Hermione had on Luna, or why Harry defended her. All he knew was that whenever Luna's name was mentioned, the two of them ended up niggling. He tried to distract them.

"Why not today? This afternoon? What's so special about Saturday?" he asked. "Oh, hello, Sir. How's Professor Sprout? Is she conscious? Can I go and see her?"

Snape entered the Greenhouse, his face grey and drawn, hollow-eyed. He sat down and rested his elbows on the staging, dropping his head into his hands, rubbing his temples. The three regarded him anxiously. After an all-night vigil by Sprout's bedside, waiting for her to wake up, he looked about as wrecked as Neville had been yesterday.

"Are you alright, Sir?" Hermione spoke for them all.

"What? Yes. Fine." He sat up, sighing, pulling himself together. "So, Longbottom, any progress? No? Miss Granger? No? I should have thought the solution would have been obvious to the school's empirico-rationalist egg-head. But apparently not…"

Hermione swallowed back the tart retort that sprang to her lips. It caught in her throat, leaving the sour taste of curdled pride in her mouth. Did he have to be so mean?

"About Professor Sprout…?"

"The damn woman's brain is addled!" Snape said wearily. "She is conscious but hideously incoherent. Gabbling absurd nursery rhymes and rambling about Christmas carols! '_Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark!_' That is understandable in the circumstances, but as for the rest… _'Ding dong bell, pussy's in the well!_'; _'The holly and the ivy…' _Pah! I ask you! We've used the _Mandrake potion_, _Runespoor egg albumen_, even _Truth Serum_, and what do we get? 'Pussy's in the bloody well'!"

_Yes, but who put her in? _thought Hermione

This was a blow. They had been counting on getting information from Professor Sprout. Her files had confirmed Neville's diagnosis, that one of his study samples had indeed been a devolutionary virus, but nowhere - _nowhere_ - was there any indication of how to cure it. Neville was getting desperate.

"Right!" He snuffed out his flame and slammed his notebook shut. "Right. I'm going to visit Professor Sprout, and then… _Then_ I'm going to talk to Luna," he declared defiantly. "Um, that is, unless anyone has any better ideas?" He anticipated objections, but the others were too surprised or simply too tired to protest. Even Snape. The Potions master spoke in a voice dulled with fatigue.

"If you are speaking to the Lovegood girl, you should be aware, Longbottom, that tomorrow is Saturday 21st December, the _Winter Solstice_."

x x x

"Evil Len!"

Professor Sprout, sitting up in bed, buttressed by pillows, seemed pleased to see him, though it was difficult to tell. She smiled weakly at Neville and patted the side of the bed for him to sit down.

"Hello, Professor, how are you?"

"He made foxy elm!" she told him urgently, "Flayom!" Her eyes, still bloodshot and sore from the dirt, scraped to meet the boy's, searching, pleading for understanding. A familiar twist of anguish tightened in Neville's chest. Oh, not another one. Not her too.

"Professor, do you know what's happened? Do you get what I'm saying?" he asked gently. Her shoulders sagged and he could see her struggling for the words,

"Curious lid, yob."

"Can you tell me your name, Professor?"

"Rot! Pus!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

Madame Pomfrey poked her head round the screen.

"She's severely traumatised, Neville. It must have been a terrible ordeal. Don't get her over-excited. She needs to rest."

Sadly, the boy stood up to leave, but the Professor clutched at his arm,

"Not dog, evil Len."

The plea stung his heart.

Conducting a non-existent orchestra, Sprout waved her arm at the ward, an all-embracing gesture, and with the look of someone at their wits' end, she began to sing:

_"Ring-a-ring o' roses,_

_A pocket full of posies…_

_Atishoo, atishoo… we all fall down!"_

She leaned her head towards at Neville, nodding encouragingly, made impatient, flapping movements with her hands; she wanted to communicate _something_ - but he didn't know what. The frustration wrung him, squeezing out shrugs of apologetic uselessness. He'd had enough practice; he should be able to make more headway than this.

"Look, I'm right sorry, Professor; I'm trying, but I still don't understand," he told her plainly. He didn't want to humour her, to patronise. "Maybe it's best if I do the talking."

So he told her everything he knew. About the adulterated potions, the malfunctioning wands, the fruitless search for an antidote. She listened intently, shaking her head, tutting in dismay. At the mention of Malfoy, she snatched at Neville's hand, shaking it frantically.

"**He made foxy elm**! **Lost ices**!" she shouted.

The matron reappeared, a glass of purple, effervescent liquid in her hand.

"Time to go now, Neville. Here, Pomona, drink this. There… That's it. That's better…" she soothed the agitated woman.

As Neville walked slowly away, the sound of singing followed him down the ward.

_"The holly and the ivy…"_

_x x x _

Saturday 21st December

"I cannot _believe_ we're doing this," Hermione muttered for the fourth, or possibly fortieth, time. "That we're actually listening to that bead-brained hippy…"

Picking their steps carefully in the gloom, she and Harry paced all the way round the unlit bonfire. It was huge. It had taken the able-bodied students the best part of the night to drag the forest of felled timber out of the castle building and into the courtyard. They could have done with Hagrid to help them. Or working wands. Now, in the muted, greyscale dawn, the collected logs and branches had been dumped in an enormous heap, it's unmoving, dark mass slumped on the ground like a dead giant awaiting cremation.

"I just can't believe…" Hermione began again.

"Look, it's weird, yes, but Dumbledore's sanctioned it, OK?" Harry pointed out tersely. He wasn't too happy about Luna's plan either.

"Only because he hasn't any choice. What's the alternative? Wait and see? Wait for this thing to get better by itself? It might kill us all first - or at least destroy Hogwarts. Or do we hang on in the hopes that Sprout's going to make a miraculous recovery? It could take years! Look at Neville's parents!"

Harry had no answer. Nobody had any answers. They were clutching at straws, at logs… He didn't want to be reminded about the Longbottoms, tortured to madness. How many _Crucio's_ had they suffered before they cracked? How many _Crucio's_ had his father endured in his lifetime? It was all a little too close to home…

"Nev said they finally found her wand," Harry said conversationally, changing the subject.

"Whose? Sprout's? Where was it?"

"In her Welly." They both smiled. Yeah, that'd be right - Sprout and her proverbial thigh-high Wellingtons!

"And?"

"Mulberry - Nev knew that anyway. But, get this - with a _Fwooper feather_ core."

"Oh hell, that's not good, is it?" Just hearing that bird's song could drive a person insane. "Poor old Sprout. It's all so unfair!" Hermione's expression was militant. "_Why_ isn't the Ministry doing anything to help us? Hey? Do you know we're not even allowed to send owls any more - in case of infection? You'd think the combined powers of the Ministry would be able to come up with something. They're useless! Fudge is fine, so he doesn't give a damn about the rest of us! They're probably on a skeleton staff because of the holiday, and they've shoved it in someone's In-Tray until January. Nice to know we're only important enough to count as 'Pending', isn't it?"

She kicked at a pile of leaves in frustration.

"The Ministry's scared shitless. An epidemic would bring wizardry to its knees," said Harry. Hermione snorted in disgust.

"Prophylactic measures are all very well. But while they're out there protecting themselves, we're sitting ducks in here. If Voldemort ever managed to penetrate the Castle wards, we'd be defenceless."

It was a chilling thought. And they were cold enough already. There was a stiff breeze blowing up off the lake, bringing clouds of icy mist which dampened their spirits even further.

"We'd better go in. Dumbledore told us all to stay in the Hall," said Hermione, without conviction. She and Harry exchanged a conspiratorial glance. Without speaking they made their way towards the cloisters to hide…

x x x

"How much longer?" whispered Harry.

"Soon. Luna was very specific about the time. 'When the sunlight strikes the Altar'." Hermione quoted.

"What Altar? What sunlight? There's no bloody sun!"

If it hadn't all been so serious, Hermione would have been revelling at the prospect of seeing Luna publicly debunked. It went against the grain to want her to succeed.

"I think she means that flat rock on the far side of the fountain. The one where you and Ron play Gobstones. You won't be able to see it now, idiot - the bonfire's right on top of it."

"That's an _altar_?"

"Shhh!"

A solemn procession was emerging from the Castle. Professor Dumbledore was in the lead, followed by Luna, Neville, Snape and any remaining staff who had not yet succumbed to the stress of being wand-less in a school full of angry, anarchic adolescents. Lupin, shambling and looking rather ill, brought up the rear. Full moon in a couple of days, Hermione remembered.

The group approached the bonfire and spaced themselves around it in a wide circle. Dumbledore stepped forward and raised his hand. Presumably this would be some arcane ritual salutation. Then, much to his mortification, Harry realised that he was being beckoned.

"If you intend to spy on our proceedings, Harry, perhaps you should stand where you have an uninterrupted view," suggested the Headmaster mildly, too concerned with the coming ceremony to reprimand the boy. "You too, Miss Granger."

Together they sidled out and joined Neville. Harry could see Snape mentally adding this latest infraction to the long list of _faux pas_ which they would be 'discussing' over the holidays.

Now Luna stepped in from the circle . She was holding a lighted taper.

"What!" exclaimed Hermione in the whispered equivalent of a shriek. "They're letting _her_ do it? Can't Dumbledore? He must have loads more experience than that nit-wit. What does _she_ know?"

"Shush, Hermione. Let her be." Neville chided her. "This is Earth Magic we're dealing with here. If Luna says she's in tune with her Spirit Guides, we've got to believe her. It's an intuitive thing."

"Huh. And she hasn't even got a bone through her nose!" Hermione's scepticism couldn't resist a swipe.

x x x

The mist was thinning. As they stood, huddled in their anxieties, a winter dawn was breaking. On the Eastern horizon, the first, pearly rays of sunrise shimmered. The Castle walls, back-lit, were black and featureless, the clock-tower a stark silhouette against the morning glow.

And then a beam of sunlight pierced the tower. Deflected through the high rose-window, a single shaft of light shone down, focussed directly into the heart of the waiting pyre.

Luna lifted her taper and plunged it into the fire. The flames began to curl.

"It is the time of _Alban Arthan - _the Winter solstice," she proclaimed, in a voice resonant with earthy mysticism. "All about us is Darkness. This is the time of Death and Rebirth. Our Goddess, our Soul, our Sun - do not abandon us! We offer you our Love, our Light!"

Beginning with Professor Dumbledore, Luna moved round the circle, giving each of them a lighted, white candle and placing in the palm of their right hand a small, white Mistletoe berry. Then she picked up two leafy branches and, with slow, deliberate steps, began to pace around the burning fire, stopping every so often to bring the stems together with a crack of wood on wood.

"What's she doing?" whispered Harry. Neville looked irritated at the interruption.

"She has to go round the fire twelve times, once for each month of the year. This is the enactment of the Battle of the Yule Kings: she's got the Oak in one hand and the Holly in the other. They have to fight for dominion. At the Winter Solstice the Oak always wins - it ushers in a new season of growth, development and healing. Or so she says. She knows these things."

They watched her in silence. The heat of the fire reddened their cheeks. At last she came to a halt and hurled one of the branches - the defeated Holly, Harry assumed - into the fire. It flared and crackled. Then she faced Neville.

"Ready?" He gave an apprehensive nod and, in turn, nodded to Snape. The Potions master came forward carrying a massive cauldron. _Where the hell had that come from_, Harry wondered. He supposed Snape must have had it with him when he arrived, but Harry hadn't noticed. Together Neville and Snape balanced the cauldron on the blazing logs. It looked very heavy.

"What's in it?" Harry hissed when Neville returned, hot and panting with exertion.

"The wands, Harry. Now, shut up and watch." Neville was tense, worried. Luna, arms aloft, her candle held to the northern skies, intoned to the heavens:

"_Source of Life, source of Birth,_

_O Sun, we salute thee!_

_Darkness to Light…_

_Death to Life…_

_O Atom-seed of light,_

_You come to us from realms of Inspiration…_

_You are incarnated_

_In the womb of the night…_

_You are born of the Earth Mother…_

_Birth and resurrection,_

_Healing and reincarnation…_

_Renew us in the cycle of your everlasting Light!"_

Luna had gathered an armful of leaves. She began to throw them into the cauldron one by one, calling out their names as she did so:  
"Cedar! Myrrh! Bay Laurel! Pine!..."

"Where does she get all this tosh? What's going on?"

"For Merlin's sake, Harry! They've all got special healing properties. Let her get on with it. Now, **shut up**!" Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire was beading on Neville's brow.

"Juniper! Ash! Ivy! Holly! Mistletoe!..."

A dense, green and ochre smoke was pouring out of the cauldron, billowing over the rim like a lava-flow. Then Luna was holding up a short stick, one end in each hand. There was something Harry recognised about that stick…

"That's my Wand! She's got my bloody wand! **NO**!" he yelled as Luna brought the wand down and snapped it over her knee like a twig. She tossed both halves into the smouldering cauldron. Harry was beside himself.

"She's broken my fucking wand! That was the only wand in the whole place that still worked and she's broken it! Is she **_insane_**?"

"Shhh, Harry. Watch." Hermione, who had been staring, utterly mesmerised by the entire ritual _in spite of herself_, put a hand on his arm. "Look!"

The enormous bonfire was crumbling to ash before their eyes. Tree trunks that should have taken hours to burn were disappearing into smuts and then nothingness. The piled up logs and boughs and branches were vanishing into the very ground. _The Earth was taking back her children…_

The cauldron was left on its tripod feet, standing alone in the courtyard, on a square of smooth, unblemished stone.

x x x

The circle of onlookers closed-in on the cauldron, not daring to look inside. What would they find? Charcoal? Nothing?

"Shall I do the honours, Miss Lovegood?"

Luna stared unblinkingly back at the kindly Headmaster, too stunned to reply.

Peering over the blackened rim, Professor Dumbledore reached into the cauldron and rummaged, eventually retrieving a smooth, undamaged Walnut wand.

"Aha! Well now, shall we see if it works? Er, let me think… I'm rather out of practice! How about '_Reddewandi_!'?"

The wands shot out of the cauldron like Porcupine quills, flying into the air and then skimming away to find their respective owners. Harry felt a length of Holly (eleven inches, supple) slide into his hand…

**End of Chapter. **

**Now, as you will have guessed, Professor Sprout is speaking in anagrams, and I'd love to translate them for you, but that would be a give-away. (Somebody will work them out later - who do you think? Not Crabbe and Goyle, that's for sure!)**

**Next chapter: THE MESSENGER. (And it's not the Angel Gabriel…)**


	9. The Messenger

**Author's note: This must be my shortest chapter ever - but it just didn't seem quite right tagged onto the end of the previous one. And I'm fond of this Bonxie -I think he deserves a chapter in his own right!**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 9: THE MESSENGER**

Monday 23rd December

Azkaban

White, trembling claws were attaching another scrap to his leg. The Bonxie submitted without a struggle, waiting for the touch which he knew, dimly, would follow: the touch of emaciated fingers poking out through the bars, wrapping themselves around his sinewy neck, stroking and soothing, _stroking and soothing_… a soft, persuasive, hypnotic caress.

And afterwards? He was a new gull! A gull with a mission… a gull ready to dive for the deepest, slipperiest sardines; to bombard the greediest guillemot… he was Super-Skua! And though every sea-bird instinct screeched that this went against the call of the wild, against the laws of the sun and the seasons, he was feather-down, unable to resist the compulsion to fly south, _overland_…

The bemused Bonxie, whose cliff-top dreams were now peopled with strange, shouting humans; who had grown inconveniently loath to fly in all but the clearest weather conditions; whose bird-brain was invaded by a squawking colony of meaningless, human phrases; who was haunted by the notion of a vertical, stone stack where moon-eyed night birds sat silently blinking, where fish was plentiful and free… …launched himself yet again from the ledge.

**End of Chapter. END OF PART 1 (Did I say this story was in two parts?)**

**In part 2 things start to get rather busy on Christmas Eve, because, believe it or not, Malfoy's spying was not all in vain.**

**Next chapter: TRIM THAT TREE. Hermione braces herself for Christmas with Snape and Harry. Yes, we actually get back to the Christmas part of the story - but it's not all turkey and cake...**


	10. Trim That Tree

**Author's note: Here beginneth Part 2, with a short, slight lull before the storm… **

**By the way,in the UK we don't use 'trim' to mean 'decorate', so this (for me) is rather a forced pun…**

**(Minor detail - you remember that Quig is Australian, right?)**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**PART 2**

**CHAPTER 10 : TRIM THAT TREE**

Tuesday 24th December.

Christmas Eve. Snape Cottage.

"Hey! You made it then!"

As Hermione stepped out of the fireplace she virtually tripped over Harry's feet. He was sitting too close to the fire, legs stretched out to the brass fender, waiting for her.

"Hello, Harry!"

"Your luggage arrived about five minutes ago," he said, "so I knew you were on your way."

Hermione recognised her small overnight case standing by the door. She hadn't brought much stuff - it hadn't seemed worth it for just a couple of days. She took a moment to pull off her gloves. It was odd seeing Harry here, in Snape's house; away from Hogwarts he was out of context. It made her a little shy. _Don't be soft, it's only Harry. But where's Snape?_

"Oh, good. You got my owl, then? Sorry I couldn't come yesterday like we planned. It was all so… Well, you know. It all got a bit crazy on Saturday, didn't it? And then it was such a rush to get to the train and everything…"

She took her coat off, since Harry hadn't offered, and plonked herself into the low armchair opposite him.

"That was pretty amazing," he agreed. "How on earth did Dumbledore manage to reschedule the Hogwarts Express? Bet that took some doing!"

"Can't rid the Castle of corruption, but he _can_ make the trains run on time… Our very own Mussolini!" Hermione smiled.

"You know I haven't a clue what you're on about?" said Harry with a good-natured grin.

"I know."

She looked about her, taking in the rather spare furnishings, the laden bookcase and the total absence of Christmas decorations. Very jolly indeed! This was going to be a ball!

"It's just as well you didn't come back with us," Harry was saying. "When the Cottage has been empty for a while, _he_ insists on getting off at an earlier Floo and then walking - so that he can check the boundary wards and so on. It's quite a long way, especially when it's cold. It's like a _precautionary_ thing. Bit OTT if you ask me."

Hermione noticed Harry's use of 'he' in reference to his father. It denoted a gulf, a distance. _They were still not comfortable in each other's company then._

"How's it been so far?" The question was obliquely phrased, but Harry knew what she meant.

"Not too bad, actually. I haven't seen that much of him. He's either been working in the basement with the specimens - I'll show you them later - or… well, he's spent an awful lot of time up in his room. He uses it as an office when I'm here, so he can keep out of my way. Or the other way round. I think he's avoiding me…"

Hermione regarded her friend with mingled compassion and impatience - gosh, he could be ego-centric, and talk about a persecution complex! He always assumed that people's intentions were directed against him.

"Harry, he's probably just really _tired_," she pointed out sensibly. "I don't think any of us have the faintest idea how stressful last week was for the staff - what with McGonagall and Sprout, and the business with his wand…"

She was right: Harry hadn't thought of that.

"Were you at the station too?" she asked suddenly.

"What? When?"

"Saturday afternoon. I looked out for you, but I must have missed you. He was there."

"Snape?"

"Yes. D'you know, I think he came to say goodbye to Neville. Well, anyway, he came into our carriage, and he shook Neville's hand and said something like, "It looks as though you will be home for Christmas after all, Longbottom", and then he went. It was very odd. I mean, we were _all_ going home for Christmas."

"What did Nev say?"

"Nothing. Just blushed furiously, like he does, and got all tongue-tied and mumbly. It must have freaked him out - he was awfully subdued for the rest of the journey… He did a good job in the end, though, didn't he? Saved us all?" Hermione's opinion of Neville had undergone a strategic revision over the last few days. Besides, praising Neville drew the limelight away from Luna.

"Neville? I'll say! Bloody brilliant!"

"I'm glad it's all over, aren't you? For one thing, it's so nice to be able to brush my hair properly again!"

x x x

They lapsed into a companionable silence, each reliving their own version of the previous week's crisis, content to settle back lazily into the comfort of its uneventful aftermath. Finally Harry stirred, stretched and yawned.

"I suppose I'd better show you your room - or rather, **my** room, I'll have you know. I'm on the couch."

Hermione gazed round. There wasn't a couch. Harry caught the direction of her eyes and laughed,

"Oh, we'll cobble something together - transfigure a chair… No probs!"

He picked up her valise and led the way through to the hall, pointing out doorways as he went:

"Kitchen's in there… That door goes down to the lab and where he keeps the animals - you really must meet Szahuna and Eamon!"

"And Braque?" she asked. She'd heard a lot about the Giant Tuatara and was keen (with some reservations, especially about the nostril-licking) to meet him. She also, it had to be said, was fascinated to see how Snape would treat the creature which, Harry assured her, was his _pet_.

"Braque? Oh, he's about somewhere. He comes and goes."

"And Quig?"

Harry was less positive about the aged, deaf house elf.

"Ah. He's throwing an elfish wobbler at the moment. All I said was that we'd been invited to the Weasley's for Christmas lunch, and he went ballistic. I think he'd been planning a special, traditional Aussie elf Christmas dinner in your honour. Narrow escape, eh? You don't realise how lucky you are! Merlin knows what he'd have dished up - pot-roast wombat or kangaroo kebabs? Though," Harry conceded, "his barbecued Billywigs aren't half bad…"

It amused Hermione to see how the lure of Mrs Weasley's cooking could blind Harry to the wishes of the other members of his household. Quig was evidently offended, and she doubted whether anything less than an _Imperius_ would persuade Snape to sit at the same table as Molly…

They had reached Harry's room. He dumped her case on the bed.

"Meet me downstairs when you're ready, and I'll show you the garden before it gets dark…"

x x x

They strolled up and down the narrow pathways that separated the raised borders of Quig's lovingly tended herb garden. Hermione marvelled at the range and variety of plants there: all the standard herbs that you would find in any wizard's (and many Muggle's) kitchen garden, plus rarer, magical species. She had always considered herself a competent, even an expert, herbologist, but there were specimens there she didn't recognise at all, amongst the commoner names: aconite, allihotsy, dittany, bobotubers, fluxweed, knotgrass, scurvygrass, flitterbloom, puffapods, wormwood…

"Neville would just die if he saw all this!" Hermione stooped down to read some of the labels. "This is a herbologist's heaven!" She was filled with admiration – for the garden itself, and, by extension, for Quig.

"No _Shark Lily_, though!" joked Harry.

"I should hope not. I bet Snape never wants to see that vicious stuff ever again. What about Professor Sprout? Was she alright? Did you get a chance to see her?" Hermione asked.

"Sprout's OK. Once the spell was broken, she got her speech back. Funny thing is, though, she can't remember anything about it - not about being buried or dug up or anything."

"Probably just as well." Hermione shuddered at the thought.

"Yes, but it means we still don't know who did it," said Harry.

"Don't we?" Hermione had her own strong opinions on this.

"Draco? We can't prove he did it. Anyway, forget about him. Guess what was the first thing Sprout said when she came round - 'Has anyone watered my Sneezewort?' "

"And had they?"

"Neville did."

"Longbottom to the rescue again! What a hero!"

x x x

Chatting about nothing in particular, they ambled through the gate of the walled garden and out into the open fields of the Snape Estate, Harry pointing out the landmarks.

"The lake's in that direction, there beyond that clump of Willows - it's choca with lethal, venomous beasties, as you might expect… That's the track that leads down to the big gates at the main entrance… From that hill you can see right down over the valley and towards the village of Snape-Delaford, and you get a good view of the Manor…"

Hermione listened, registering the note of quiet pride in his voice as he showed her the grounds. _He doesn't dare get too proprietorial yet, she realised, but he's finally starting to feel he belongs here - for the first time ever, he's got a real home._ She was happy for him.

"Can we go to the Manor?" She was intrigued to see the Snape family seat. "Have you been inside?"

Harry's response was cagey.

"It's all locked up."

For a second Hermione felt uncomfortably like an artist, cleaning a canvas and glimpsing an earlier image, the original artwork, concealed beneath the later layers of paint and pretence. More Snape secrets… And had Harry become, by default, a 'secret-keeper'?

"I wouldn't mention it to him either," Harry warned. "It's a tricky subject." He didn't say why.

Inwardly, Hermione groaned. She hadn't expected it to be easy or particularly pleasant staying with Professor Snape, but nor had she anticipated such a minefield of taboos.

"Harry, are you sure he's OK about my being here? He wasn't very friendly last week - not exactly 'charm' personified…"

"He'll be nice," Harry assured her. "I've made him promise to be nice."

_So they did talk to each other after all_. Hermione was surprised and, inexplicably, touched.

X X X

An eye-watering, antiseptic blast, neither camphor nor menthol, hit them as they entered the back door. It suffused the entire building with a medicated zing. It was as though the cottage itself were suffering from a bad cold and had waxed the floors with vapour rub.

"Oh god, I hope that's not supper," coughed Harry, holding his sleeve up in front of his nose. Hermione hoped so too. Politeness has its limits…

The pungent, medicinal smell intensified as they walked down the hall. Right in the centre of the living room, apparently growing out of the polished floorboards, was a Eucalyptus tree. It was not large, as Eucalyptus trees go, but here, in the low-ceilinged confines of the small cottage, with its dense clumps of evergreen foliage, it seemed enormous. Its smooth, smoky-blue boughs extended from one side of the room to the other, drooping long sickle-shaped, grey-green leaves over the dining table and as far as the fireplace. At close quarters the leaves exuded a sinus-scouring combination of every detergent, lavatory cleaner and decongestant Hermione had ever encountered.

On closer inspection Hermione discovered them to be an assortment of deterrent-coloured corks, berries, cones, nuts, sea shells and, she realised with a shock, toadstools… Clambering up and down at random amongst the twigs, pushing their way through the greenery was a family of somewhat light-headed, tiny Tasmanian Glow-Pixies. Their indignant squeaks, correctly interpreted, were complaining vociferously about the smell, but they persevered with the job - at Christmas they could earn good money from piece-rate, free-lance twinkling.

Snape, browsing by the bookcase, replaced a volume on the shelf and turned to greet them, emerging through the Eucalyptus like a black panther from the jungle.

"Good afternoon Miss Gr-, Hermione," he corrected himself.

"Hello, Sir." _Had the wand bug struck again?_

"What's all this?" asked Harry, trying hard not to inhale. He twanged a branch and dislodged a Pixie. "It stinks in here. What the hell has that stupid elf done now?"

"Quig has taken it upon himself to put up Christmas decorations. I did say that a _small_ tree would be sufficient - our Halls have been decked with quite enough boughs for one year - but Quig's spatial awareness leaves much to be desired."

"Couldn't you have stopped him? Can't you make it smaller?" Harry demanded, pinching his nostrils.

"As you wish. _Reducio!"_

The Eucalyptus shrank to a more manageable six feet. The shrilling of the Pixies went ultra-sonic.

"He lets that bloody elf get away with murder," muttered Harry, snuffling, still wrinkling his nose. "Ugh. Let's go downstairs while the air clears up here. What? What's up?"

Hermione followed Harry, but not without a baffled, backward glance in Snape's direction. Much to her embarrassment, he raised an eyebrow at her, and then resumed his reading. She had a vague impression that his reaction to the tree had been deliberately enigmatic. She was confused.

"Oh, nothing - it's not what I expected, that's all."

"You mean, _he's_ not. Get used to it!" Harry grinned. If there was one thing he'd learned about Snape it was that his intolerance, like everything else, was unpredictable.

Hermione vowed to set aside her preconceptions about Snape. This was a holiday; she should relax and go with the flow. This was no time to be judgemental. She was, after all, at that moment heading into a wizard's basement to be socially introduced to a partially bisexual, West African, three-headed snake. Chill, girl!

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: RHYME OR REASON. Well, what would you talk to Snape about over dinner? Hermione is pleasantly surprised - at first.**


	11. Rhyme or Reason

**Author's note:**

**Yep, I'm stretching credibility a little here, but, given the crazy plot so far I don't think it's too wildly OCC for the conversation at dinner to take the direction it does… (It is a Christmas story after all - didn't want to get too dark…) But you didn't expect Snape to discuss the price of fish either... Please persevere - several threads start to get tied up in this chapter.**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 11: RHYME OR REASON**

Tuesday 24th December

After a conversation with Hulmin (translated from Parsel with much hilarity on Harry's part), Hermione knew she'd never be able to view Snape in the same light again. It had taken some time to convince the snake that she was not a 's-shamelessss temptresssss, come to s-steal s-Snape'ss affectionsss…", but once he understood she was no threat, he became confidentially outrageous.

"Oooh, that time he frisssked me for s-scale mitesss - I came over all of a s-slough!" and "…s-so I s-slithered up his s-sleeve and s-started s-squeezing…"

x x x

Sitting at the dinner table now, with Harry opposite her and Snape at the head of the table, Hermione could not help her mouth quirking into a smile at the mental image of the dignified Potions master grappling with the lascivious, infatuated Runespoor…

_Oh no, he'd think she was laughing at him. Serious! She must talk about something serious and sensible. Stay factual, Harry had said, keep off the subject of Potionsand homework; no personal questions. So, what could they discuss? _She didn't want to resort to the weather – that would be far too banal ('Do you think it's cold enough to snow? Will we get a white Christmas?'). Actually, there was one question which had been puzzling her.

"On Saturday, Sir, why did Luna snap Harry's wand? It was working - it needn't have gone in the cauldron at all."

He rested his fork on his plate and eyed her.

"Did Longbottom not explain?"

"He tried," Harry scoffed, " but he gets so bogged down in the technicalities. We didn't have all week to listen to him rambling on."

Snape, regarding Harry with a mixture of impatience and disappointment, actually defended Neville. Wonders will never cease!

"Longbottom's perseverance does him credit, Harry. Do not mock it. A little more application from you would not go amiss…"

"Oh, so Neville's suddenly a whiz-kid too!" Harry heard the whine creeping into his voice. Everybody, it seemed, could earn Snape's approval but him.

"The boy is no genius, Harry, but his methods - lumpen though they may be - have yielded results. You could do worse than to learn from his example…" He turned back to Hermione. "You were saying, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, yes, Sir. When we were at the… …'ceremony', we didn't really understand what was going on. We couldn't see the point of breaking the wand."

"It is a pertinent question, Hermione. I'm surprised, Harry, that it has not occurred to you to ask it."

_Oh, don't mind me, I'm just your son - the ignorant one who never asks anything relevant; the one who can't do anything right._ Harry took a huge mouthful and chewed laboriously, cutting himself out of the conversation.

"We believe - that is, Longbottom and I share the belief - that Harry's wand was an active constituent in the process of healing and renewal - "

"But, Sir, I thought it was all connected with the Solstice. That's what Luna's been saying, though I don't know whether i believe her. She said it is a time of 'rebirth' - wasn't it all tied up with the solar cycle? And all her healing herbs? And Earth Energy?"

At the mention of Luna's name, Snape's expression became ambivalent, as though he'd been eating an over-ripe Stilton cheese which smelled abominable but, surprisingly, didn't taste so bad.

"Who can say for certain?" he said, carefully noncommittal. "The solstice is a time of intense ecliptic activity. Powerful forces are at work. If a wizard has the ability to channel those energies, who knows what might happen. Miss Lovegood's talents are… _unusual_. I cannot wholly discount her contribution." That seemed remarkably open-minded for Snape.

"But, you say Harry's wand…?"

"…acted as a catalyst for the regenerative reaction?" Snape took a slow sip of Merlot and swallowed appreciatively. "Yes, I think so."

"Catalyst?" Harry gulped, still chewing.

"Your wand, Harry, has inherited the Phoenix's powers of reincarnation. You have already observed that for yourself. All Longbottom did was to extrapolate from that, the theory that the process of renewal would be empathetic - that the wand would extend its healing to its comrades in distress… Maybe even shed a tear or two…"

"But it was all a guess? You didn't _know_?"

"No." Snape's smile was indecipherable.

"Blimey! Wasn't that a bit risky?"

"I am not averse to taking risks, Harry…"

Hermione was feeling less wary of Snape now; she could even contemplate holding a normal conversation. The wine was relaxing them all.

"So, is Luna a crackpot or not, Sir? What do you think? All her talk about paganism and alternative spirituality… and shamans - Father Christmas being based on a red and white toadstool - that sort of thing. Is she serious? She's so obsessed with her various cults, and she comes out with all these names - oh, I don't know: Thor, Freya, Cerridwen, Ragnarok, Aradia, Julbock - he's some sort of Swedish Yuletide goat, so she says - I mean, does it still have any relevance or not? Or is it utter rubbish?"

She had spoken with passion, her irritation with all-things-Luna lending a denunciatory tinge to her words. Snape regarded her with amusement.

"You have set a very high threshold for your Leap of Faith, Hermione. An analytical mind of your calibre…"

Hermione blushed, wished she had a Muggle tape-recorder. Had he really said that? She'd barely got over the fact that he was using her name, let alone paying her compliments. What on earth had Harry said to him?

"…may find Miss Lovegood's beliefs hard to accept uncritically. One cannot deny that she is indiscriminately eclectic in her choices. But neither can we dismiss all her notions as unsound. There can be no doubt, for instance, that occasions such as the Muggle Christmas are firmly rooted in pre-Christian practice…"

_Oh no, he's a teacher! Why did I open my big mouth?_ Hermione could almost hear the professorial gears engaging.

"Christmas, as you should be aware, is by no means a 'pure-blood' festival. Its origins can be traced to ancient Mesopotamia, with the legends of Marduk, and down through history through the twelve day Egyptian celebrations for the birth of the god, Horus, to the feasts of the Roman Saturnalia… And, as Lovegood rightly says, many Celtic rites have been incorporated into what you regard as the Christmas tradition. Santa's eight reindeer - whose names I shall not even attempt to recall - represent, I gather, the eight main festivals in the Druidic calendar. Druids consider the deer to be a sacred animal."

"But are they stoned on magic mushrooms?" Harry wanted to know.

Snape ignored him.

"So, Lovegood referred to Ragnarok, did she? Curious." The Potions master swirled his wine thoughtfully.

"Why, Sir?"

"Why? Oh, it's the second time that name has cropped up this week. An unlikely coincidence. There was something Professor Sprout said… Something about dogs…" He tried to remember.

"I bet she'll have nightmares about dogs for the rest of her life," put in Harry. "Those Crups went berserk! I've never seen anything like it."

"Ah, yes. It was one of her ridiculous rhymes. I thought nothing of it at the time, other than the obvious reference in the first line. But now, perhaps I should wonder…" He quoted:

_"Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark!_

_The beggars are come to town -_

_Some in rags, and some in jags,_

_And one in a velvet gown!"_

"So?" said Harry. "What's odd about that? It's a nursery rhyme, and a pretty dull one at that."

"Indeed."

"And what's a 'jag' when it's at home? Apart from a posh Muggle car, I mean."

"Evidently etymology is another educational shortfall which we shall have to address, Harry. I am unfamiliar with the vehicle you mention. In this instance, 'jag' derives from a Middle English root, with which, I dare say, you do not wish to concern yourself. It means a garment with a ragged, hanging hem. That's all."

Snape looked ready to change the subject but Hermione was intrigued.

"Aren't you going to tell us what the rhyme is about, Sir?"

"Curiosity, Miss Granger…"

"…killed the cat. I know. But I'm interested."

She was. She was listening to Professor Snape talking and she was interested - not scared, or anxious to learn in case the topic came up in a test - just plain interested. This dinner wasn't proving to be such an ordeal after all. She wasn't sure what she had expected from an evening in Snape's off-duty company - apart from that it would not include small talk - and she'd assumed it would be seriously heavy going. She offered the unfortunate, singingProfessor Sprout a silent vote of thanks.

Snape took another mouthful of wine and wiped his lips. Then he began:

"You wish to know the origins of this rhyme? It was in the early seventeenth century. A Welsh wizard – a reputable character at the outset - by the name of Cribyn Raggner, fell foul of the ruling magical establishment of the time. It was over some issue concerning the misuse of magic for personal gain - questions of land and property, so I believe. I do not know the details. Raggner and his supporters banded together in a rebel faction, with the aims of avenging themselves on the ruling elite. You will, I hope, note distinct parallels with events in our own times…"

"With V - the Dark Lord?" Hermione asked breathlessly, remembering, just in time, that Snape (unlike Harry) did not use the V word.

"Just so." He nodded at her approvingly. "History repeats itself. Though in this case their aims were less ambitious. Revenge appears to have been the prevailing motive. They were not a well-organised political opposition, more a band of magical thugs - their methods were crude in the extreme. They would roam the countryside vandalising property, causing disturbance and mayhem - wanton destruction."

"Like the Vikings? Rape and pillage?" chipped-in Harry.

Hermione tensed. She couldn't imagine how Harry could say the word 'rape' in front of his father. You never knew when Snape would flip… She saw his knuckles whiten around the stem of his goblet, but he refrained from comment.

"Raggner himself was a charismatic leader - Pureblood family, you know - and was regarded as a figurehead by the rabble who took up his cause. The man himself was killed in some insignificant raid - an ignominious demise - I forget where - but instead of folding, the group continued under its own destructive momentum.

"At some point in history, they began to associate themselves with the Norse mythological tradition of _'Ragnarok'_ - the doom of the gods. You, Hermione, may have heard of it under another name: _Gotterdammerung_. Yes? Harry? Oh, never mind."

Harry shrugged. This was more Luna's territory than his. He felt he could get through life quite adequately with a negligible knowledge of Scandinavian sagas. Snape went on:

"According to legend, _Ragnarok_ is when the forces of darkness rise up to defeat the gods. As a story, it held immense appeal for those thugs - by setting a godly precedent for their violent revolt. Most convenient. That, of course, and the similarity of the names. That was, as I understand it, purely coincidental, but they capitalised on it. As time went by, the group adopted more of the old Norse customs. Miss Lovegood could probably tell you more about this than I can."

Snape coughed, his throat dry after speaking for so long. Hermione had to prompt him again.

"The rhyme, Sir?"

"A commemoration of a raid, Hermione. A motley gang of rebels, attacking a village - vagrants, beggars, the outcasts of society - bent on violence, with their aristocratic leader, no doubt in a 'velvet gown'. The town dogs would have barked!"

"Wow! And I thought those things were kids' stuff. Nonsense rhymes." Harry helped himself to more vegetables while he digested the story. Snape pushed away his plate. He had eaten almost nothing.

"Lots of them are," Hermione told him, "but there are quite a few based on real life." She realised that Harry's upbringing had probably not included many nursery rhymes, let alone their historical sources. "Like, 'Ring o' Roses' is supposedly about the Black Death; and isn't 'Baa baa black sheep' something to do with the wool trade and export taxes? Sir?"

Snape, it was satisfying to see, was out of his depth here. He parried the question, his hand lifting as though to ward off a physical assault and shooing away any possible link.

"I do not claim to have anything more than a passing acquaintanceship with Muggle infant literature," he said, heartily glad of the fact. "Nor indeed would I wish to. My knowledge is confined to those examples in which events in the wizard community have been assimilated into Muggle folklore…"

"Do you think Professor Sprout was trying to tell us something, Sir?" Hermione was eager, a hound on the scent of a clue. It trashed her theory about Draco, but it was a new lead…

"I doubt it. The woman just hates dogs." Snape hadn't much time for mutts either. Some more than others. Black ones in particular...

"She'll hate 'em even more now!" said Harry, his mouth full.

Snape was still ruminating on the rhymes.

"There is indeed a second example which deals with this very subject. As a matter of curiosity, can you think what it might be, Miss Granger?" He consulted Hermione.

_Oh, no, he was testing her, putting her on the spot._ Hermione immediately felt herself back in the classroom, required to perform, to excel, to answer correctly.

"Another rhyme?" Intellectual panic began to erase her memory.

_God, it was a game to him, making students squirm. He couldn't help himself, even when he was supposed to be on holiday._

"Is it about dogs? 'Old Mother Hubbard'? 'Hey diddle diddle … the, er, little dog laughed…'? Oh, gosh. 'Leg over leg, as the dog went to Dover…'?" Hermione was dredging her childhood now.

"Forget the dogs. Think about tongue-twisters."

" 'Peter Piper'? 'Betty Botter'? I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know."

_He could have his fun, watch her admit defeat. Fine, she thought, you're the great, intelligent, all-knowing Snape - happy now?_

But he wasn't smirking or gloating. He topped up her goblet and, with no apparent condescension, said,

"Have you come across this one: 'Round the rugged rocks…'?"

"Oh, yes! '…the ragged rascal ran'." She completed it for him.

"Good. That is indeed the contemporary and currently accepted version. The original went more like this:

_'Around the Ragnarok, the Raggner rascals ran.'_

Hermione waited dutifully for the explanation which she knew would be forthcoming.

"The followers of Raggner may have latched onto the concept of Ragnarok from the Norse, but their ceremonies tended to follow Druidic examples - you see, Miss Lovegood isn't the only one with mixed allegiances – so they would gather at sites of ancient worship, holy to the Druids - henges, barrows, standing circles, places like that – to perform their own rituals. The name 'Ragnarok' came to be associated, quite mistakenly, with the stone monoliths found on many of those sites. That, Hermione, is the price you pay for ignorance. Wrong sort of rock." He gave a wry laugh.

He was beginning to make Hermione uneasy. Why harp on about some historical cult, a group of vicious, mythologically-minded yobs? The lightly academic after-dinner conversation seemed to be taking on sinister overtones.

"What is it, Sir? Is it something we should be worrying about?"

"No. No, of course not. It is just a rhyme of singularly unsavoury provenance. There is no cause for alarm. How did we get onto this subject? It is not particularly cheerful." Snape summoned a care-worn smile.

Harry got up.

"Why don't we take our coffee by the fire, and you could show Hermione the violin picture - the one you named Braque after. It's incredible the way you make it come out of the wall like that. If you feel like it, that is…"

Harry, with no attempt at subtlety, dragged in the new, safer, non-controversial topic. He remembered howastounded he had been when Snape had first transformed the blank cottage wall into a living gallery, and he knew it would be right up Hermione's street. As he squeezed behind his father's chair, his hand rested briefly on Snape's shoulder, an awkward attempt at solidarity. It was not a confident gesture. Hermione ached to see how difficult it was for them both.

Snape agreed, though he seemed preoccupied. They moved over to the fire.

"It occurs to me, Hermione," said Snape, his thoughts still juggling with their earlier discussion, "that Raggner is an anagram of your surname. It is as well you are not superstitious - Professor Trelawney would undoubtedly interpret that as an omen!" Then, seeing her startled face, he apologised, "I'm sorry - I don't suppose you find that reassuring."

No, she did not.

He materialised the Braque artwork for her. It emerged - just as it had done for Harry - from the flat, white surface of the wall in all its infinity of angles and its sombre, earthy palette of colours. She was suitably impressed.

"Can you do any more?" she asked, fired with enthusiasm. "Oh, I don't mean it to sound as though it's your 'party piece'…" Chatting to him informally left her flustered. She wondered if she were straying into personal and therefore forbidden territory.

"There's the rude one," suggested Harry, winking at her, hoping to embarrass Snape.

Snape silenced him with a frown, not rising to the bait.

"Duchamp's _'Nue descendant l'escalier'__1_," he explained. "Angularity in motion. Hardly a subject for page three." Harry was thus rebuffed. Hermione felt obliged to show that there was no misunderstanding.

"I've seen that one in a book," she said. "It's… _complex_." _And not at all naughty. _She was cross with Harry. He could be as childish as Ron sometimes.

Snape replied to her question. He was certainly making an effort to be civil.

"To reproduce a painting requires a certain familiarity with the picture in question. Apart from that it is all down to memory and a great deal of concentration. Did you have anything particular in mind?"

Once again Hermione felt that her intellectual honour was at stake, and she didn't feel up to the challenge. She was no expert on paintings. She desperately wanted him to respect her choice, but all she could think of was the common Muggle poster-shop reproductions, debased by popularity, such as Monet's _'Water-lilies'_ or Van Gogh's _'Sunflowers'_. It was suddenly important to her not to appear childish. Snape waited, giving her time to think. Eventually an idea came to mind, prompted - oddly enough - by the comment Snape had made himself the previous week about Pre-Raphaelite potions.. She made a tentative suggestion – _he's going to hate this!_

"How about a Christmas picture? Something a bit more in keeping? It is Christmas Eve after all. Well, actually, this one would be a bit before Christmas - it's where the Angel Gabriel comes to Mary… It's got a funny name; a Latin name."

Snape looked interested but perplexed.

"That doesn't give me much to go on. I shall be reduced to using _Legilimens_… The name of the painter? The period? Artistic school? Style?"

Hermione shook her head, annoyed with herself for even mentioning it.

"It's by the chap who painted all those women with long noses, luscious lips and long, crimpy hair…"

Damn! She shouldn't have said anything about hair. Snape didn't pick her up on it this time though.

"Rossetti?" Snape was thinking hard. "I'm not closely acquainted with that School. Are you, by any chance, referring to _'Ecce Ancilla Domini'_? Why that painting in particular? It is hardly typical of Rossetti's style."

He was good. Harry had warned her. Art was one of the few of Snape's surprising, closet interests that Harry had been able to disclose to her, though Snape would, ideally, have preferred to perpetuate the illusion that his antipathy towards Muggles was absolute. But it was unrealistic to expectHermione to spend time in his home without learning anything about her host. He'd been totally scathing about Snape's taste, of course, but it was inverted boasting; she could detect his admiration for his father's talent beneath the flippancy.

"Why that one? I don't know, Sir." It was nearly as excruciating when he took her seriously as when he treated her like an insufferable child. "Something about the eyes - a haunted expression, as though she realises she's got this huge responsibility and she's overwhelmed and scared and… it's her eyes… It's alright, Sir - you don't have to bother if…"

She'd been on the point of saying 'if you're tired', but had backed off before she committed herself to anything sympathetic. She wasn't about to get familiar with Professor Snape - he'd only throw it back at her at some later date – with spikes on. He did look tired though.

"What do Muggles do on Christmas Eve?" he asked, playing safe.

"Make you peel potatoes and trim Brussels Sprouts, and clean the oven and wash the kitchen floor and sweep up pine-needles… and count Dudley's presents," grumped Harry. "I'm well out of it."

It was Harry's turn to be on the receiving end of the raised eye-brow.

"We're not all like that!" Hermione defended her family. "There's usually some sort of get-together, and we eat chocolate log, and my Mum always wants us to start the Christmas cake because we're too full on Christmas Day… and we wrap up last minute presents… and some people go to Midnight Mass - it's lovely hearing the bells pealing out and knowing that it's Christmas… and we leave a Mince Pie and a glass of sherry on the hearth for Father Christmas, and a carrot for the reindeer… and people play party games like Twister and charades and they sing carols…"

Snape and Harry were looking at each other in male dismay.

"No," they said firmly in unison.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: RAGNAROCKET. Just when things had been going so nicely…**

1. Nue Descendant l'Escalier : Naked Woman Going Downstairs


	12. Ragnarocket

**Author's note: What? Action? In one of my stories? You'd better make the most of it - doesn't happen often! Try and read Hestia's speeches in a Welsh voice and then she doesn't sound quite so much like Yoda.**

**To Eagle Eyes: I will load 4 and 5 soon - they follow on very closely from each other. But just wanted to get the seasonal story up first!**

**To Vert: Ragnarocket isn't a real word!**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 12: 'RAGNAROCKET'**

Tuesday 24th December

The fire coughed a puff of Kingfisher blue smoke, flecked with streaks of green flame. And another. A splutter of brilliant, jade green sparks fizzled in the grate, then more spurts of blue fire. Was a dragon choking in there?

"Disturbance in the Floo!" Snape was on his feet in an instant, wand raised. "Stand back! I'm not expecting anybody, are you?"

Harry and Hermione couldn't think of a single person who would dare to visit them at Snape's house on Christmas Eve.

"Se-ve-rus!" A wailing cry shrivelled amidst the blaze and was snatched back up the chimney. Snape motioned the two of them further away, and directed his wand into the heart of the fire.

"_Aperio!_" The sparking reduced to sea-green spits and, above the crackling, came broken phrases, a dire warning:

"Sever-us! Save the… …must go… …wards…Go!"

For an instant the face of Professor McGonagall was recognisable, curls of flame warping around her hair, licking through her eyes and nose…

"_Aperio!_" Snape repeated, focussing the full, diamond-tipped intensity of his concentration on the flickering features, drawing them in and together by sheer, tidal force of will.

"Professor! Tell me quickly!" He knew he could not long withstand the sucking drag of the failing Floo.

McGonagall spoke fast, seizing the precious window of coherence to deliver her message, the words intelligible now, and terrible.

"It is a raid, Severus. You must leave at once. The Cottage wards are breached. The Floo is unsafe, corrupted. Take the children and go. _Get out of there_. Do not… …**not** stay and fight…"

And then she was distending, distorting, the features sliding horribly apart and over one another, slipping away into the merciless green heat in a melt of grotesque inhumanity, the beheaded echo of her voice still writhing in the ashes:

"…breached… …Spinster's… …meet you… leave…"

Snape, his face white with shock, was already half-way down the hall.

"Harry! Get the broomsticks! Cloaks, gloves, hats - whatever. It's cold. Here -take a swig – Warming Potion. We're leaving. Now! Move! Both of you, hurry!"

As she fumbled into her cloak, haste making her clumsy, dropping her gloves, struggling with the clasps, Hermione could see Snape directing some kind of a spell at the entrance to the basement. Then he was hustling them roughly out of the door, flinging his own cloak carelessly round his shoulders as he went.

"Follow me. Stay close; hold tight; fly fast," he ordered, poised to kick off. "Hurry up!"

"No," said Harry.

"We have to go _now_, Harry. It's not safe. Questions later."

"I'm not leaving." Harry stubbornly stood his ground.

"Don't be absurd! We don't have time for this. Do as you're told! Get on that broomstick at once!" Snape barked.

"What? And let some - some who? We don't even know who they are - come and ransack the house? Wreck all our stuff? Not bloody likely! I'm going to stay here and fight!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy! You don't know the half of it. There's more at stake here than you realise. This is no time for Gryffindor heroics. I've got to get you out of here." A note of desperation joined the urgency in Snape's demands.

"I'm not a kid. I can fight. I've fought Voldemort before now - how can this be any worse? Do you honestly think I'm going to _run away_? This is my home too, you know! How can you be such a _coward_? I thought Death Eaters were supposed to be brave!" Harry was staunchly determined, challenging, unwavering. Snape's eyes flared with fury.

"I'm warning you, Harry. Do as I say! Get on that stick and fly. Now!"

"Make me!"

Snape grabbed him by his shoulders and for a moment they confronted each other, eye to eye, youthful bravado against the pragmatism of experience. Snape's fists tightened, his knuckles whitening in a grip that was equal parts anger and anguish, the iceberg professionalism cracking in the warmth of his son's misguided courage.

"Harry!" he implored in a hurried, low whisper, underpinned with emotion. "Do you think **I** want to leave my home? I have _no choice_. _We_ have no choice. McGonagall would not send a message like that for nothing. It is my responsibility to keep you safe - and Hermione. I cannot allow you to put yourself at risk. Even if it means abandoning my home. Your safety is more important. _Do you understand_?"

Dumbly Harry nodded.

"Then get on that stick and stop behaving like an obstinate, arrogant little fool! Fly!"

x x x

As they soared upwards, the valley mist settled into the spaces left by their departure, shrouding the deserted cottage in swirling bands of foggy white, until it disappeared from view beneath them. Snape did not look back. He flew fast, so fast Hermione could barely keep up, his face set in stone.

Acutely conscious of the sacrifice the man had just made, Hermione felt like an encumbrance, a millstone. She was holding them back. Without her they could surely have Apparated out of danger, even if it meant another under-age rap for Harry. She wished she could fly down to the nearest Muggle church and sneak inside to sit out Christmas in safe anonymity. No one would bother what happened to her. She was insignificant in all this. What had Snape said? 'There's more at stake than you realise'? What was at stake? Who were the attackers? It had to be more than a gang of drunken Christmas revellers. In any case, how would they have got in? Wasn't the whole estate warded? Hadn't Harry laughed about his father, said he was so paranoid that the place was warded as securely as Hogwarts? Perhaps they wouldn't have been able to Apparate after all. No wonder he was alarmed. But why couldn't they have hidden somewhere? Watched what was going on? Crept back when it was all over? Were the attackers looking for them? For Snape? For Harry?

Suddenly she understood why hiding had not been an option. Voldemort could _sense_ Harry's presence. If he were part of the gang… McGonagall hadn't said that though. Perhaps she didn't have to. Who else could penetrate Snape's wards? Who indeed.

Harry was flying alongside his father, shouting questions. The icy rush of air whipped the words back into their slipstream, flinging them away into the darkness, accusations and their answers dropping into the night like so much discarded litter.

"Where……going to?"

"…rendezvous… …Jones"

"How far?"

"…only… …miles..."

That was a long flight. Not as long as when they had travelled from Hogwarts to the Ministry of Magic on the thestrals, or when Harry had flown from Privet Drive to Grimmauld Place, but far enough. And those journeys had been in the summer, not on an arctic December evening. Hermione couldn't believe that there wasn't somewhere nearer, which would be safe enough for the time-being. This had to be serious. Now she was very frightened.

They were flying high - there had been no time for Disillusionment Charms to hide them from stargazing Muggles. Not that there would be that many about at this time on Christmas Eve - they'd all be at home tucking into their smoked salmon sandwiches and snuggling down to watch _'The Sound of Music' _or _'It's a Wonderful Life'_ or whatever feel-good classic the TV moguls had unwrapped from its Christmas assortment this year.

Despite the _Warming Potion_, Hermione was already colder than she had ever been in her life. She'd taken a big swig of the stuff as per instructions (Harry had virtually emptied the flask, leaving precious little for Snape himself), and, at the time, the magic had scorched through her like a Salamander's kiss. For the first half-hour she had glowed, insulated, buffered against the weather, but gradually the freezing temperatures and icy winds were taking their toll. Away from the enveloping dampness that padded the valleys, the air was dry, thin and cold - brutally, bone-splinteringly cold. Under her woollen hat, Hermione's ears had numbed to non-existence; her fingers, locked around the broom-handle, were brittle twigs - she prayed that there was a wizard cure for frostbite: her dripping nose was going to need it.

Far below them the villages twinkled like tiny Santa's grottoes, and the lines of streetlamps winked through the frosty dark like strings of fairy lights on a distant Christmas tree.

Soon they had left the lights behind. Below them now the land lay bleak and windswept: long, low hills rising to the barren, flat-topped, granite tors of Dartmoor, stark and inhospitable. The air temperature around them had dropped by several degrees. Ahead, rashers of streaky cloud formed the pale, unappetising filling between two slabs of black: the moor and the night.

Snape slowed and motioned them downwards. Hermione marvelled that he could still move at all - her own extremities had long since stopped responding to signals. She suspected that if she attempted as much as a wave, she would simply topple off her broom and crash to earth like a frozen meteorite.

"Fly below the cloud layer," he called. "Warmer. No Muggles here."

Hermione blinked her reply - her eyelids seemed to be the only part of her still mobile. 'Warm', she thought, was a wildly optimistic adjective.

"Lower, Harry," he shouted, "not _through_ the cloud… …too wet…"

Snape never flew through cloud. Over it or under it; never through it. Never again. Not since that time when… He could recall the facts, but the terror of that day… the childish panic at being alone and lost, … the vaporous, white blindness that had robbed his senses, choking in his throat and lungs, tasting of death, of damp souls lost and swirling in misty purgatory, muffling his seven year old cries for help… …all that was locked in the past, consigned to the safety of the Pensieve…

Dropping, they levelled out at a couple of hundred feet and flew on grimly, heading due North. Now, Hermione could make out features on the face of the moor - the contoured rise and fall of the fields, darker sockets - hollows - rugged projections; boundary lines furrowing the hills: low banks running in parallel down the valley slopes, dividing the land into narrow strips, the frowning, stony reaves crossing at right-angles, cutting enclosed land from the brow of the open moor. Dotting the landscape like acne scars, she could make out the grassy pits of early settlement, pounds and hut circles and, here and there, the ringworm round of a ceremonial stone circle.

A silent, blue-white disc shone up at her from the mercury slick of a reservoir, silvering the tors, mirroring back the sterile, profane perfection of the full-moon.

In the metallic moonlight all colours had become steel. Hermione found herself supplying a muted palette to the blueprint below, matching antiquities: Bronze Age browns of earth and winter heather; granite greys of the Iron Age, rusted in rocky outcrops; a greenish patina of the sparse and short-cropped grass.

In the far distance, away to her left, were the high tors - Whitehorse Hill, Yes Tor and High Willhays - pale and snow-sprinkled. _There's my white Christmas_, she told herself. Their summits were not sharp, Alpine crags but rounded by eternity, aged, mature, rumpled like grubby bedclothes covering the bulky form of an ancient, sleeping giant.

Now the dark land was looming up towards them and Hermione had the sensation of falling… until she realised that it was the hill ahead rising steeply, and they were approaching it at an angle. She looked over at Harry - he seemed as ice-welded to his broom as she was, and he showed no sign of pulling up and increasing altitude. Hermione calculated that they might skim the summit by thirty feet or so.

This tor rose in a swelling mound, topped by a pert, smooth-sided nipple of striated stone, an enormous cairn perhaps, hiding its modesty in the cloud that draped its diaphanous veils across the thrusting, granite breast.

As they cleared the summit, Hermione saw lights - torches, fire brands, dozens of them, ranged in swaying, concentric circles around a central, focal point – a single standing stone, three metres of rock solid symbolism.

"Up!" Snape shouted, the second he saw the torches, wrenching his broom back and accelerating towards the stars. Hermione and Harry shot after him, through the clouds, and then hovered, hidden from the ground, panting as the sudden adrenalin coursed through them, sending a tingled wake-up call to fingers and toes they had thought dead to the world.

"Muggles, do you think?" asked Hermione, her teeth chattering, her lips almost too numb to mouth the words.

"Who bloody cares! They've got a fire down there… We could… Wait… Where is he? Where's he gone? He was here…"

They looked around them for Snape.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash and a crack and a jagged bolt of pure fire ripped past them, searing into the night.

"Lightning!" Hermione screamed, "Get away! Fly, Harry!"

A second bolt of energy forked through the sky. Harry and Hermione jinked and twisted in the air, their brooms slicing the darkness, turning at impossibly acute angles, avoiding the raking blades of flame.

"They're shooting at us!" yelled Harry. "Let's get out of here!"

And then they saw Snape. He was emerging from a bank of cloud, flying slowly - too slowly - in a daze, disorientated… they could only watch as the next lightning flash stabbed the air… Then Snape's broom was spinning, wheeling backwards, helplessly out of control, a crazed, hurtling carousel of light and fire… and he was falling, plunging down towards the clouds, the hostile tor, the murderous ring of cheering shooters.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed again. He didn't hesitate. He flung himself after his father, urging his broom on, faster, faster, to its limit and beyond… flying faster than ever before, faster than in any Quidditch match - catching the Snitch was a stroll compared to this - diving after the plummeting figure… Now he was stretching, straining to catch hold of the flapping hem of Snape's cloak which streamed out vertically behind and above him as he dropped, like the useless folds of a tangled parachute. Harry felt his fingers touch fabric, and he hauled back, braking, slowing, and then, in a final, desperate lunge, grabbing the broom handle and heaving it upwards…

Snape's eyes were closed, he was stunned, but he hung on, will-power alone preventing him from tumbling to his death. Harry wrestled to steady the broomstick and guide it on, away from the lights, from the jeering rabble, away from the monolithic wrath of the menhir.

Hermione caught up with them as they came back up through the shielding blanket of cloud.

"Christ! Is he alright? Harry, we must land. He'll fall off. He might faint or anything. We'll have to stop."

There was a weak, murmured protest from Snape.

"No. Keep on… not far now…"

They flew in close formation, Snape between them, Harry steering two brooms, and Hermione supporting the semi-conscious professor.

"Where the hell are we supposed to be going?" asked Harry.

" 'and straight on 'til morning…'" Hermione found herself saying, appalled that she could be quoting Peter Pan at a time like this. Snape mumbled something faintly, and she leaned in closer to hear what he was saying, repeating it out loud for Harry's benefit.

"Lake on the left…"

"Yep, I can see that!"

"…villages… hill fort on the… right."

"Got it! There are lights down there."

"…river. Harry, we should be crossing a river, and there's a castle. What, Sir? It's Castle Drogo, up on the right hand side."

"Yeah, like I need the sodding names!"

"We're making for somewhere called… Spinster's Rock. It's some kind of a Neolithic barrow… We're to look for green broom sparks. That's the signal."

They peered down, not really sure what they were meant to be seeing. Far below, a single pair of yellow eyes - headlights - cut a slow, straight line through the blackness, indicating the route of a solitary road across the moor.

"We'll have to go lower!"

The crackling fountain of emerald green sparks took them by surprise. It was nearer than they had expected. It came again, a splutter of green in the night, and they headed for it, touching down onto springy grass. They were in a flattish, open expanse, a plateau on the edge of the moor. In the centre was a megalith - three massive upright stones, roofed by the biggest boulder Hermione had ever seen, the capstone.

Her frozen legs, numb and unresponsive, would barely take her weight. Harry was just as bad. They walked stiffly, knees refusing to bend, supporting Snape between them. He kept insisting he was fine, but the moment they relaxed their arms from around his waist, he staggered and would have fallen. Grudgingly he tolerated their help. When they reached Spinster's Rock, he sank to the ground, shivering.

"_Cyfarchion__1_! It's chocolate you'll be wantin', is it?" A Welsh voice greeted them, and from behind the central stone a figure appeared. Were it not for the soft, lilting voice, it would have been impossible to tell if this person were male or female. She was dressed in sheepskin from head to foot: a chunky, fur-lined parka, fur trousers and stout boots, mittens and tawny woollen fur cap with dangling ear-flaps. She had a square-jawed, but otherwise rounded face and black, corkscrew curls shoved up under the hat. When she spoke her head nodded in rhythm with her words.

"Frozen, are you? Chilly tonight. Have this now, look you."

Tugging off a mitten she produced thick squares of chocolate.

"Professor! Bad business, boy-o! Didn't bring any Brandy. Chocolate?"

Snape sucked it slowly, feeling its reviving energy seeping into his iced muscles, clearing the fog in his brain. Harry accosted the furry Welsh woman.

"They were shooting at us! As we came over the Moor, this gang of maniacs started firing lightning at us. They shot him!" Delayed shock was making him angry, indignant, and she was the scapegoat. She folded to her fur-lined knees beside Snape.

"Wounded, are you? Did they get you?"

He shook his head.

"Just the broom. …knocked off balance… careless…"

Straightening up with a chuckle, she patted him cheerily on the arm. Snape glared at her.

"Well now, so you took a _Rocket_, eh? That's what we call 'em by 'ere… a _Ragna-Rocket_! We like our little joke, see?"

"Joke? That was no bloody joke!" Harry was furious. "It almost killed him!"

"I'll be guessin' you came up Hameldown from the south, yes? And then round the Tor by the right? Well, I thought so! What are you thinkin' of, man? You know better than to fly widdershins on the Ragnarok full-moon! Askin' for trouble, it is! Sure, they'd send up a few 'rockets' - purely as a warnin', mind you! No real harm in 'em!"

"What do they do when they get really nasty?" muttered Harry.

Hermione was studying the woman, trying to place the small, round face in context.

"I've seen you before, haven't I? Where was it?" Then she remembered - at a meeting of the Order at Grimmauld Place the previous summer. She hadn't looked like an Eskimo then.

"Hestia Jones." The woman introduced herself. "I'll be escortin' you to somewhere safe. Now then, it's a long way to the farm, and I'll be right in thinkin' you've both done enough flyin' for one night. So, Professor Dumbledore has got you an emergency Apparation licence - don't ask me how! Couldn't arrange it any sooner - everythin' 'appened in such an 'urry. Panic stations, it was! So, we'll be gettin' you home now; warm you up… Just leave it to me Hermione. Actually, you'd better both be holdin' onto me…"

They turned to speak to Snape, so that they could all Apparate together, but the place where he had been sitting was empty. The Potions master had gone.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: AWAY IN A MANGER. Hestia's farm doesn't live up to Harry's expectations.**

1 Cyfarchion - Greetings!


	13. Away in a Manger

**Author's note: I hope I haven't been too heavy-handed with the symbolism. I tried to keep a Christmassy link, but without getting too mired in it.**

**And thank you for all the reviews.**

**By the way, when I refer to 'chips', I mean chips as in 'French Fries' not as in 'crisps'. 'Cawl' is a Welsh vegetable broth (I think, but my Welsh is virtually non-existent, despite having a grandfather called Cadwallader!)**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 13: AWAY IN A MANGER**

Tuesday 24th December

"Is this some kind of a sick _joke_?"

Harry looked around him in disgust. He had been consoling himself with cosy visions of a nice, warm kitchen - even a hot, steamy one would do - but _warm_, it had to be somewhere really **_warm_**… the picture was taking shape: an idyllic, rustic, Welsh farmhouse kitchen, all local slate and whitewash, with a huge inglenook fireplace burning logs the size of tree trunks… In Harry's mind this kitchen was furnished with a traditional, oak, Welsh dresser, its tall shelves laden, not with plates and platters on display, but with a wholesome selection of home-baked cakes and biscuits, rich, sweet, fruity and delicious, all ready for Christmas… Hmm, he could be tempted… Tempted? Huh, after the night he'd had, the least he deserved was somewhere comfortable to thaw out and some decent food.

And after that, he could probably handle a soft mattress, and squashy feather pillows and an eiderdown as fat and fluffy as a newly shorn merino fleece…

Well, he'd got the fleece part right!

"You want us to hide in a _barn_?" Outrage, disappointment and disbelief vied for supremacy. "You Apparate us into the middle of nowhere, traipse us across a foetid bog in the pitch dark without so much as a '_lumos_', and then you expect us to stay in a sodding _barn_? What is this? Are all of you in the Order completely nuts? And I thought Snape was paranoid!"

Hestia busied herself with a number of rust-encrusted Hurricane lamps, which she lit with her wand and then hung up, expertly lifting them onto their hooks on the bend of a long, wooden crook.

"Come in, and sit you down," she said.

"Sit down? Where? What on?" Harry wasn't about to make it easy for her.

A couple of straw bales slid out from an uneven stack at the far end of the shed. Bow-legged, Hermione wobbled onto one, thankful to be sitting on anything that wasn't a broomstick. She felt as though she had just cycled the entire Tour de France, and might never sit comfortably again.

She was as dispirited as Harry - she'd had secret plans for a fragrant, hot bath and a steaming mug of creamy cocoa - but she was too cold to argue; too cold even to shiver any more. The lamplight reflected off her pale face, her skin chilled to the blue, skimmed-milk translucency of a bloodless moon.

Hestia was coming towards them carrying two dirty, brown squares of burlap sacking, picked up off the floor. Shrinking from thoughts of fleas, tics, lice and possible Bundimuns, and trying to appear grateful for the witch's paltry efforts, Hermione suffered the coarse, filthy thing to be put round her shoulders. At once she was enveloped by a blissful sensation of penetrating heat. Huddling into the sack-cloth, she felt her colour flowing back.

Harry, in the grip of a minor ague as the feeling returned to his limbs, gave a lop-sided, partially defrosted grin.

"Better, boy-o?" Hestia returned the smile. "All my own invention, don't you know? I call it a 'Hot Sack' - one day I'll think of a better name, but that'll do to be gettin' on with… …fantastic for the early lambs up on the Beacons… sometimes the ewes'll drop 'em on the hills before I can get them down to the shed… keeps 'em luvly 'n' warm, little poppets…"

"Lambs?"

"I'm not expectin' more'n a couple tonight - Myffanwy's due, and maybe Meagan… it was busier last night - five little beauties we 'ad."

"Wait a minute - are you trying to tell us this is some kind of a _lambing shed_?" This could well be the last straw for Harry.

"I can't leave 'em to manage alone. Too risky, what with the foxes and the dragons - nothing they like better'n a juicy newborn lamb… Much safer by 'ere. It is a sheep farm, Harry, after all!"

Hermione tried to pick out a logical path through this insanity.

"But you do have a farmhouse, right?" she asked. "Couldn't we go there and wait for you? We wouldn't do anything stupid. You surely don't need to keep an eye on us all the time…"

Hestia's natural ebullience jostled briefly with the truth and then blatantly side-stepped.

"I'll bet you'll be starvin'. What shall it be, boy-o? A bowl of cawl and a slice of _Caws Aberteifi_? Best cheese in the whole of Wales - barring Caerphilly, that goes without sayin' - they make it by 'ere, down Cardigan way."

She beamed to see the dismay on their hungry faces.

"Noh! Only jokin'! I like my little joke, see? Chips? Lads your age like chips, don't they now? And burgers? Oh, the look on your faces! You're a picture! Just because we're Welsh, you think we eat nothin' but Laverbread and leeks and cockles?"

Harry, not wanting to betray his ignorance, thankfully dismissed all dreary thoughts of baked seaweed…

Hestia padded off, a short, woolly figure. She reminded Hermione of a garrulous, good-natured, Celtic version of Professor Sprout. Some serious cooking magic must have gone on, because she was back only minutes later with two plates piled high with rough-cut chunky chips, piping hot…

Hermione eyed the food doubtfully.

"Do you suppose this is a lamb burger?" she whispered to Harry. "I don't know if I can…"

"Don't go there. Don't even think about it. Just eat it," he advised.

Hestia watched them with evident enjoyment, then stood up, slapping her knees with a sigh.

"Well, now, must check on Myffanwy. You'll be OK? Harry?"

Having satisfied his immediate needs, Harry had lapsed into a sullen reverie, and was staring morosely at the floor.

"Harry?"

His gaze still fixed on the compacted earth, Harry spoke bitterly:

"_He's_ gone back, hasn't he? Back to the Cottage, to fight…"

"Oh, Harry _bach_, don't be gettin' yourself upset now!" The Welsh endearment sounded warm and motherly on her lips. "He'll do what has to be done. He's very…" It was unclear whether she _didn't_ know Snape too well, or she _did_ know him and was struggling to find something complimentary to say. Eventually she came up with, "…resourceful."

"But I should have stayed with him! I can fight! Everybody treats me like a child!"

Which motive was dominant: loyalty to Snape or the desire to prove himself in combat? Looking at Harry, Hermione couldn't separate the two.

"Hestia," she asked, "What's going on? Why are we here? _Where_ is here? What happened back there?"

The Welsh witch planted her behind on a straw bale and sucked in her cheeks, looking about as perturbed as her cheerful nature and natural bonhomie would allow.

"Well, I don't know the whole story, mind - " she began.

"Anything," Hermione urged.

"It's been tricky, what with the Floo being down. No communication, see? Not for distance, anyways. Owls are fine for local… Even Apparating…" she checked herself. "Now then, what I do know is that I get a message from the Floo - terrible garbled - to go to my Emergency Point. That's where I met you, on the edge of the moor at Spinster's Rock."

"Emergency point?"

"Oh, we all have one in the Order. It's a place, prearranged, see? So that in a crisis we're not havin' to bother with makin' rendezvous and swappin' addresses. Saves time.

"So, I Apparated in an 'urry to the Rock - did you think it was suitable? The name, I mean? Chose that place deliberate. I like my little joke, see? And, it is well situated - for the West Country and Wales; just a hop over Severnmouth… And then I waited - I wasn't even certain what I was waitin' for. And then you arrived."

"So you don't know what happened back at the cottage?"

"Noh! Sorry. We're like the Lifeboats - the boom goes up and it's 'action stations'. No questions asked. I'm sorry; I'm not very helpful."

Harry finally looked up.

"So who were those people shooting at us back there? On the moor? You seemed to think it was funny!"

"Not funny. Not as in humorous, Harry. What I meant was, they don't intend any real harm by it. Not usually. They'd not've let 'im crash all the way. It was prob'ly a warnin' shot, across the bows, as it were - "

"Blasted his bloody broomstick out of the sky!"

"Ah well, they can get a bit carried away at their festivals…" She uttered an apologetic laugh. " 'Rock Festivals', I call them - it's a joke, see?"

Harry was beginning to see only too well.

"You mean they were a gang of these 'Raggner' guys?"

"More'n likely. There are groups - small ones - all over the country. We call 'em the 'Rags', by 'ere. First Full Moon after the solstice is when they celebrate Ragnarok. It's their main festival of the year. Bound to be _excitable_… But the Professor knows that."

"He didn't say." Harry was indignant. "All he said was that they were thugs who used to go around in the olden days, smashing things up."

"Didn't want to worry you, I'll be bound. He plays it close, that one. And the Rags aren't so big on the 'smashing' these days - the Ministry keeps a watch on 'em. Most of their gatherings nowadays are 'peaceable'. Besides, can't be doin' much damage up on the Tor."

"No, just shooting people," Harry sniped, understanding better now, but not forgiving. The incident had shocked him more deeply than he realised.

For a while now Hermione had been nurturing an impression, an intuition, which was rapidly crystallising into a certainty.

"Hestia, why - " she hesitated, not sure quite what she was trying to ask, "why is it important for us to stay _here_, in the barn? It is, isn't it? You really don't want us back at the farmhouse, do you?"

She was rewarded with a shrewd glance which confirmed her belief that Hestia, under the sheepskin, was far from fluffy.

"Yes, I'd heard you were a sharp one," the witch commented. "Couldn't slip that one by you… Well now, you're right - you're a deal safer in the barn. One of the safest places tonight in the whole country, I shouldn't wonder…"

"Why?"

To answer that, the witch walked over to the door and dragged it wide open. Dense clouds had obliterated the moon; the blackness was impenetrable.

"Look you!" She shone a rapid '_Lumosissime!_' and, for a split-second, the surrounding field was fully illuminated. Fat, ruminating sheep blinked back at them, momentarily dazzled by the light. In the centre of the field were a line of three massive, leaning columns of stone: a fifteen foot, Neolithic, Puddingstone giant and two others, slightly smaller. Close by, a tiny stream issued from a bubbling Spring.

"The _'Three Men of Trellech'_" Hestia told them, in a voice bowed with reverential awe. "There is powerful magic here - Old Magic. This valley has been inhabited for over four thousand years - the wisdom of the ages is here. It lives on in the very rock. Feel it! Go on, feel it," she whispered. "The Sacred Spring is a fountain of life itself. Dark Magic has no sway within sight of the Three. No one can harm you 'ere, Harry _bach_."

"Well, it's nice to know we've got running water, anyway," said Hermione.

A sharp, imperative bleating summoned Hestia away to the lambing fold, partitioned off from the body of the barn. Harry and Hermione could hear scuffling noises and, in between hummed snatches of _'While Shepherds Watched' _and _'Once in Royal David's City'_ (two of Hestia's favourites), lilting words of encouragement.

"So, where does that get us?" Hermione wanted to build on the new information. Harry was less constructive.

"We're stuffed."

"No, Harry, that's not true. Think about it - we're warm and dry; we've had something to eat, and we're somewhere incredibly, auspiciously _safe_ on the edge of the Brecon Beacons. That's a start!"

"Big deal. Hallelujah!"

Harry hugged his sack round him more tightly and closed his eyes, not sleeping but thinking…

_…think… think what to do… there must be a solution to all this._ He just felt so damn helpless. What could he do? What would they let him do? He felt as though he were blindfolded, spun on the spot by unseen hands, dizzy, directionless, arms out-stretched, patting at emptiness… and the circle kept shifting, dodging… The circle were his friends, his enemies, his memories his hopes, his fears… they were closing in on him… they were stoning him! Flints, rocks, pebbles were coming at him out of the darkness, each stone finding its mark, leaving its own bruise. They were throwing his life back at him: the lies, the deceit, revenge, rage… And, when he was finally cowering and battered, then came the heaviest, most hurtful blows of all: the burdens of friendship, loyalty, trust; and that deceptively rounded boulder - love - which pinned him to the ground and left him gasping for breath beneath its crushing weight.

_What could he build from this useless rubble?_

…he thought about the times when he had confronted Voldemort - evil, red eyes slitting the night - and the loathing he had felt then, fuelled by hatred. _He should have been there to fight again tonight! But no - he had been protected, cosseted, rescued… _the frustration of it all, the powerlessness engulfed him in a silent fury of impotence._ So, he had been saved. Saved for what? From what? From his fate, his destiny? Why not save time instead and get it over with? Why wait? Why not let him have his chance now?_

Swept along on a brooding storm of resentment, Harry clenched his fists, battening down the anger within. _Since when had it been up to Snape to decide what he could or could not do with his life? Since… Oh hell! He thought he'd got beyond this over the past few weeks, but no! Sometimes he really wanted to hate that man. But too much had happened. He knew too much now; the link existed; he could not deny it. _He tried to recall the bloodlust that had led him to the showdown in the cellar, to that sadistic _'Crucio'_, to the single-minded spite that had kicked a sick man in the shin… His path had seemed so much straighter then, clearer, uncluttered by the obstacles of his affection. _It would be so much easier if he hated that man…_

And now Snape was out there, fighting for his home, maybe even his life. Harry thought about his father and the resentment was replaced by a sickening dread.

Hermione could see the Snape blood surfacing in Harry, in his tension, his fierce isolation, the lone, bitter conflict. She had shared so much with Harry over the last five years, but she had never seen him quite like this - silently taking on the world, railing at life. She didn't associate him with self-pity; but now there was more than himself at stake.

Finally he spoke, in a voice heavy with resignation, spiked with anxiety.

"This is how it's going to be, isn't it? My life? It's never going to change; never going to get any better. I'm stuck with it. There'll always be people out there trying to get me - unless I get them first. I thought things would change, I really did, you know, once I found out… once I'd got my head round it… but it's no better. It's worse! I've got **him** on my back the whole time. You've seen what he's like - I can't do anything right. Nothing's ever good enough. Do you know how hard I've tried to get through to him? If I'm nice to him he knocks me back; if I ignore him he hassles me. I could work my socks off, and it still wouldn't come up to scratch. He despises me for being so feeble at Potions. In his eyes I'm no better than Neville - except I've been dumped on him and he can't get rid of me. I'm nothing but this huge, _famous_ disappointment. He probably hates all that too - my 'powers', you know, speaking Parsel and stuff. I didn't ask for it. What more am I supposed to do? I should have made a better job of it that day in the cellar! And now… now he's out there, and we don't know what's happening, or even if… if…"

"He'll be alright, Harry. He's _resourceful!_" Words, just words.

"He's not indestructible though. You've seen him - barely sleeps, hardly eats… And that thing with the broomstick tonight… For a moment I thought - oh, you know. Hermione, I was scared. And now he's flown all that way back again. He's mad. You know how frozen we were… What can he do alone against all of them…? What if…?"

"He'll be fine." And for Harry's sake as much as Snape's, she willed it to be true. She tried to think of something positive to say.

"You know, today - just seeing you together, the way you talk to him - things _have_ changed, Harry. You may not see it yourself, but you're different. And he's different. You say things to him that you'd never have dared to in a million years…And you're still alive to tell the tale. And he _has_ made an effort - he was nice to me today – God! Was it only today? It seems like weeks ago! And he did that because _you_ asked him to… You've just got to give it time."

"We may not have time," Harry said gloomily.

x x x

"It's a boy, boy-o! A ram lamb! A baby rammy-lammy!" came the delighted, sing-song voice of Hestia Jones. Hermione jumped up - some things were simply too cute to miss!

x x x

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: LEAP OF FAITH. What has happened to Snape? And, while we're on the subject, what's happening to Hermione? (No mush…)**


	14. Leap of Faith

**_Author's note_: Yes, Harry does seem to throw a lot of wobblers - I just can't see how a kid with his background could have a balanced outlook on life. More in this chapter too!**

**This is the pentultimate chapter, so we're almost there now…**

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 14: LEAP OF FAITH**

Tuesday 24th December

"The Floo's working again," Hestia reported. She had nipped back to the farmhouse, returning with an alarming metal gadget that looked worryingly like a pair of forceps.

"Should keep 'em by 'ere," she said. "I fetched 'em into the house that time the puppy got stuck up the chimney…"

"Does that mean it's over? Can we go? Can we Floo back now?" Harry was instantly up and ready to leave. The witch gave him a troubled smile.

"Slow down, Harry. No rush now. Best wait until mornin' before we make a move. Mr Shacklebolt says - "

"Kingsley? Have you seen him? Is he there? What's been happening?"

Hestia shook her head at his impatience.

"You can ask him yourself, Harry."

"Harry, my young friend!" The resonant rumble of Kingsley Shacklebolt's rich baritone sounded in the doorway. The Auror stepped in from outside, giving his boots an unnecessarily considerate stamp on the muddy threshold, pushing back the cavernous hood of his cloak and shaking away a fine, greyish mist which dragged on the hanging folds like regret. An unmistakable, acrid smell of smoke lingered about him. Did Hestia's Floo need sweeping? His bald head gleamed in the lamplight.

The boy did not return his greeting.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Harry said flatly.

Squatting down on the bale next to Harry, the man drew a long, slow breath, and started at the beginning of the story. Harry didn't particularly mind; he'd already read ahead to the end. Right now the 'how's and 'why's didn't much matter.

"Nobody's dead, Harry. You're jumping the gun there. Earlier this evening, Professor Grubbly-Plank intercepted a message in the Owlery at Hogwarts. It was on the leg of a gull. As all the pupils have gone home for Christmas, she assumed it must be for a member of staff, but when she detached the scroll she found that it was not intended for anyone at Hogwarts at all. It was addressed to a known Death Eater. Naturally, she took the note straight to Professor Dumbledore."

Kingsley paused his statement to check that Harry was listening. Hestia and Hermione were rigid with suspense. The Auror continued, keeping to the facts, stripping the account of emotional content.

"The note was from Lucius Malfoy."

Hermione burst out,

"But it couldn't be! He's in Azkaban! Isn't he? He hasn't escaped?"

"He has evidently developed a means of communication with the outside world. He is a resourceful man." The adjective rang hollowly in the draughty barn.

"The note confirmed details of a planned raid on Professor Snape's property. At that time we had no way of knowing the scale of the attack - for all we knew many more such notes may have been successfully delivered. It was imperative to warn Snape and to evacuate the Cottage.

"Then we discovered that the Floo network had been disrupted. That increased our concern, as you can imagine. Professor McGonagall managed to make contact, I understand, but she says that the reception was poor."

"It was dreadful," agreed Hermione. "She was breaking up. We couldn't hear what she was saying."

"You're lucky Snape is so efficient," Kingsley commented. "Another couple of minutes and you wouldn't have got away…

"The downside of his efficiency, however, is that when the Order - as many as we could muster at such short notice: Moody, Weasley, Diggle, Podmore, Dumbledore, of course, not Lupin, (pity about that, bad timing,) Tonks and myself - when we Apparated to the Snape Estate, we too had to contend with the wards. He's got a fearsome self-sealing spell in operation there! Dumbledore was eventually able to supply an emergency keyword which let us squeeze through, but it wasted valuable minutes. An impressive system, nevertheless! It's still a mystery how the Death Eaters breached the wards. I'll be setting up a ministerial investigation, of course…"

Harry and Hermione both had puzzled expressions.

"So it was the _Death Eaters_ after all," said Harry.

Kingsley registered that response without comment, but eyed them with professional interest. Hermione had the feeling that anything they said might be taken down and used in evidence…

"When we arrived at the Cottage, it became very clear that we were not dealing with just Death Eaters. It wasn't their _m.o_. at all. No gratuitous torture; no Unforgivables ricocheting off the walls… We have ascertained that it was a strike team of four Death Eaters who penetrated the wards and conducted a preliminary search, but they didn't hang around. Perhaps they found what they came for - or maybe you had already left! Yes, Lucius may have masterminded the attack, but it would appear that he had also recruited back up, 'muscle' as it were, in the form of the local gang of 'Raggnerites'. You may not have come across this term. It refers to - "

"Oh, we have, believe me!" said Hermione.

"This group, it would seem, were only too pleased to cap their full-moon festival with an organised orgy of destruction. It… well… I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Harry, but they've made a mess of the place. It's not pretty. They ransacked the house from top to bottom, emptied all the cupboards, pulled down the shelves - there were books everywhere. It seems they were still looking for something; we don't know whether or not they found it…" He shifted awkwardly on the bale, gave a awkward cough. "There's no easy way of saying this, Harry - they torched it. Torched the Cottage."

"It's _burned down_?" Hermione gasped in horror.

"Not completely, but it's not looking good. When Snape arrived on the scene - "

"He got there then?" interrupted Harry.

" - when he arrived he salvaged what he could, kept diving back through the flames, but it was hopeless. It was as much as we could do to fight the thugs off, let alone rescue possessions. But you couldn't tell that to Snape. He was desperate to save some of those precious books of his. We had to drag him away. Then the group concentrated its efforts on storming the basement…"

"Oh no!" Hermione cried. "Szahuna! The animals! Eamon! All those poor creatures down there. Are they…?" She didn't want to finish the sentence.

Kingsley smoothed his large hands over his head as though to erase the painful memory.

"The intruders failed to gain access to the basement. The wards had been recently altered. That delayed them. Snape - " He stopped again.

"So, if he's alright, why isn't he here?" asked Harry quietly. Burning cottages, upturned bookcases, routed vandals were all an irrelevance. "_Where is he_?"

"When I last saw him he was alive… er, he was _fine_."

Hermione was disgusted that a trained Auror could lie so unconvincingly. Or, at least, avoid telling the truth.

"Please, Kingsley…" she begged. "Harry needs to know."

The big man nodded reluctantly. His training hadn't prepared him for this. Merlin! Not so long ago this boy had tried to kill the man, and now…

"They're looking for him, Harry. Alastor, Arthur, Tonks - all of them. They'll find him."

"**_Find_** him? Where…? What…?"

"That's just it; we don't know. He disappeared. After he found the tail…"

"…a _tail_?"

"Charred almost beyond recognition, but I'd say it was a tail. A big thing, too. Some kind of crocodile, perhaps…"

Harry had shut his eyes, but he couldn't block out an image of Braque, butchered and dismembered. Nausea soured in his throat and he fought it down, swallowing hard. Hermione tried to formulate a question.

"He went looking for…?" _For what? A body? Bits of a body? Revenge?_

"We are working on the assumption that Snape left the immediate vicinity of the cottage. After that, it's anybody's guess."

Shacklebolt regarded the distraught teenagers, wishing he had better news to tell. The girl was the more obviously upset; Harry gave little away, wrapping his fears more tightly with each new revelation.

"You must appreciate, Harry, Hermione, that the situation was very confused. Most of the attackers escaped under cover of the fog; but those we did manage to detain, did not submit graciously. What with the weather, the sheer heat of the flames and getting the fire under control… takes more than a bucket of water to put out wizard fire. You wouldn't believe the effect of the smoke in that mist - talk about smog! Dragon's breath, more like! Couldn't see three feet in front of our faces…"

"Have you tried the Manor? Or the lake?"

"They're onto it, Harry. If he's there, they'll find him. Anyway, I'll be getting back. I'll Floo you as soon as there's any news. There's nothing you can do… Try to get some sleep."

X X X

Sleep? That was about as likely as Snape's chances of finding Braque in the fogbound acres of the estate. Shacklebolt's departure seemed to have sucked all hope from the air, leaving them trapped in a vacuum of foreboding. Hestia, having gone out with him, had not yet returned, unless she had sneaked in a back way and bedded down with her blessed sheep. For a while Harry and Hermione didn't speak, though there could be only one possible topic of conversation, two separate strands of thought spiralling together into a single, twisted subject: Snape.

"He was expecting something," Hermione said at last. "I'm not sure if he knew quite _what_, but he was definitely expecting something to happen tonight. Look at the way he reacted to McGonagall's message - it was like an ejector seat. And you saw how tense he was at dinner…"

"Call that tense? By his standards that was laid back, almost horizontal!"

Hermione despaired at how unreceptive Harry could be to Snape's moods, but she smiled.

"It was rather a crash course in Muggle Studies, wasn't it? English, History and Art all rolled into one! Interesting though. He knows a lot more than just Potions." Trivia cushioned her concern.

Harry was blaming himself.

"If I'd known, when he was going on about that _Ragnarok_ stuff, that they were going to turn up on our doorstep any minute, I'd have taken more notice… The problem with him being a Professor is that you assume everything he says is a lecture, and you switch off…"

"The nursery rhyme module threw me at first," admitted Hermione, trying to keep the tone light-hearted. "And then when he started on anagrams! Those rhymes of Sprout's must have been preying on his mind."

"Hmm." Harry was tired now and he didn't feel like chatting; he knew she was only doing it to distract him.

Hermione, on the other hand, was wide awake, sniffing for clues like, she thought wryly, a Crup tracking a Herbology teacher! She was more than ever convinced that Draco was involved in the plot - if Lucius was, then his son pretty much had to be - but the loose ends were infuriating.

"I wonder what they were looking for?" she mused. "Do you know, Harry, initially I thought they were after you - it wouldn't be the first time, would it? - but it doesn't sound as though they were. What else could it be? We'll have to ask Snape when we see him," she said, more confidently than she felt. "Snape can't have thought anyone would get through the wards, otherwise he'd have reinforced them - like he did with the basement. He must have thought the passwords were safe. No one's used _Veritaserum_ on him recently, have they?" She said it jokingly, but she was half serious. "What about when Voldemort…?"

"That was a couple of months ago," objected Harry. "He'll have changed them since then. Anyway, as far as I know, he keeps sensitive information like that in his Pensieve - precisely for that reason: in case he gets captured and interrogated."

"And does he keep his Pensieve at the Cottage?" A sleuthful gleam came into her eyes.

"No, in his office."

"Bother."

Another theory dashed. But then… _Bingo! _A scene flashed into Hermione's mind: Draco tucking a blanket round the sleeping Professor. Even at the time it had struck her as being uncharacteristically thoughtful - the Slytherin was hardly noted for his kindness_. So what had he been doing in Snape's office anyway? Got you now, Malfoy!_

It was harder trying to figure out a link between Draco and Professor Sprout without any evidence. _It had to be there somewhere. The problem was, there had been so much going on, with the wands not working and Sprout's disappearance, trying to find an antidote, and the added complication of Snape's secret Rosewood, plus the school being in quarantine for Christmas… it was all too much._ She sighed. _Too much? Almost like a giant smokescreen…_

"Rot! Pus!" she exclaimed suddenly.

Harry's eyes jerked open with a start.

"Huh?"

"It's an anagram of Sprout! Why didn't I think of that before? I'm surprised Snape didn't get that one! Maybe Neville didn't tell him. Oh, I wish I had a pen and paper - it's much easier than doing it in your head. What was that other thing she said?" Hermione was on a roll now.

"Use your wand," suggested Harry.

"To scratch the letters in the floor? Oh!" Hermione slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand and rolled her eyes. "Duh!"

Two elementary Transfigurations later, she was shuffling and rearranging the letters of Sprout's earnest declaration, crossing them out as she used them, marking them with little dots and ticks as she tried them in endless combinations:

_'He made foxy elm'_ - _feel doxy hamm_… _doxy leaf mehm_… no good. She played a hunch and wrote the name 'Malfoy'. What was left? _Deemhex_… _Malfoy deem hex_…?

"_Malfoy hexed me_," she whispered in triumph. "Harry, wake up!"

"Not asleep…" he grunted. "What?"

"**Malfoy hexed me**!"

"Bully for you."

"No, it's what Sprout was trying to tell Neville. I worked it out."

"But we knew that already, didn't we? Who else would have done it? It more or less had to be him - he's the only one slimy enough to - "

"This is proof!"

"Not if Sprout can't remember saying it."

Hermione, in her anagrammatical enthusiasm, had forgotten about that minor detail.

"Well, it's proof enough for me," she crowed complacently. "Don't you find it satisfying to solve a piece of a riddle like this?"

"It'd be more satisfying to Hex Malfoy where it hurts." Harry yawned. "What time is it?"

It was midnight. The world held its breath, expectancy in the air. Then, faintly, echoing peace and goodwill across the valleys, braving the mufflers of the mist and the wooded hillsides, a peal of distant bells rang out tidings of great joy…

"Aah! It's Christmas," sighed Hermione.

Harry said nothing. His eyes glistened.

"They _will_ find him," Hermione said gently.

X X X

_If I were at home now, I'd be lying in bed listening to the bells too, thought Hermione. Mum and Dad would have insisted on me hanging up that ridiculous felt 'sock' - when will they ever grow up? - so they can pop in a few stocking fillers for me to find when I wake up in the morning. I'd be lying there, pretending that I could really hear the sleigh-bells jingling… though I don't know if I'll ever be able to contemplate Father Christmas again without thinking about Luna and her crazy red toadstools. Are they so crazy…? Snape didn't seem to think so._

She settled herself more comfortably into the straw, pulling it in towards and around herself, bending away a few spiky stalks, wrapping herself in her cloak, snuggling under the scratchy sacking. This wasn't so bad. Funnily enough, she did feel safe in here. _Logic_ told her that this place offered no special sanctuary, but _instinct_…

There was an atmosphere in this old barn - a quiet, a profound stillness, such an intensity of calm, such a sense of tranquillity and peace, absolute and infinite, that she felt it as an actual presence, enfolding her in its age-old embrace. Here, now, on this holy night, she could believe that they were nestled securely in the lap of the Ancients, safe and inviolable, cupped in the palms of a timeless, transcendent mystery, protected from the Dark.

"Harry?" she murmured. "Are you awake?"

Cat-like, the green eyes reflected the lamplight as he looked up. Awake? He'd been combing every inch of the Snape estate, every bush, tree, hillock and hollow, probing the hedgerows, dredging the ditches… fog-drenched and freezing, searching… If Snape were out there hurt…

"Harry, do you know, I've been thinking - perhaps Luna isn't completely mad after all."

"Luna? What's she got to do with it?"

"Well, OK, she's peculiar and she's definitely got several screws loose, and her research is really sloppy - she doesn't check half her facts - and she talks a lot of mindless, unsubstantiated, superstitious nonsense… but I'm talking about her Faith. Her _Leap of Faith_…? That kind of otherworldly confidence she has. Her belief in powers that are beyond… beyond magic even - in forces of nature that are completely timeless and unknowable, so totally beyond our comprehension that all we can do is accept unconditionally… I've never been able to do that."

"What? You're saying you think she's right?"

"Not exactly. I'm just willing to admit that there might be _something more…_

"Think about it, Harry - don't you think it's weird how things work out? Who'd have thought that we'd be here on Christmas Day, sleeping in a barn with the sheep and the lambs…"

"Oh, shut up!" He had tiger's eyes now, flashing dangerously, snarling a warning. "You're losing it, Hermione. Can you hear yourself? We're not in some damn 'nativity play', for Merlin's sake! We're in a dirty, stinking barn on some godforsaken Welsh hillside, and its perishing cold, and we're wearing _sacks_ - and the last person to use them was probably called _Larry_ - and the whole place reeks of sheep, and the floor's covered in sheep crap and, ugh, sheep _afterbirth_, for all I know - and you're going on like we're acting out 'Away in a Manger'. That's sick."

"I only said it was _odd_. Not that we're living out a _parable_!" Hermione defended herself hotly.

"Yeah, but I'm _'The Boy Who Lived'_, aren't I? I'm going to save the wizarding world, right? And Kingsley? Who was he then? One of The Three Wise Men? Forgot his gift, didn't he? Where are the other two? Or will they turn up in the morning? I suppose he'll arrive with Dumbledore and Mr Weasley in tow. You'd just love that!"

"Stop it, Harry."

_The Three Wise Men are already here. They've been out there for thousands of years…_

Harry lashed out, his fears poisoning every syllable.

"My home is in ruins, and my father could be lying dead somewhere, and you - you're romanticising it all into some kind of significant, symbolic adventure! My life's falling apart, and you're sitting there having an _epiphany_! Thanks a lot! Don't talk to me, Hermione - save it for the sodding angels!"

He turned his back on her, hunched, angry and alone. _'Nox'_ he spat, blinding the barn with a jab of his wand.

_Happy Christmas to you too, thought Hermione._

**End of Chapter. Next and final Chapter: MERRY CHRISTMAS! Well, we had to get there eventually. But will Harry get his Christmas Dinner?**


	15. Merry Christmas!

**Author's note: Last chapter. Tempting though it was to have Snape abducted/ kidnapped/tortured again, I had promised myself that this story would end on Christmas Day... So, it's 'happy ending' time folks! (Though not necessarily 'happy ever after'. Who can say?) **

**DECK THE HALLS**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 15: MERRY CHRISTMAS !**

Wednesday 25th December

Christmas Day

"_Nadolig Llawen_! Merry Christmas! Good morning - _bore da_! Luv'ly day. A little misty, mind, but it'll burn off a treat. Wake up, now."

Hestia stomped into the barn, ruddy-cheeked, panting clouds, with the robust, busy, purposeful air of someone who has already rebuilt a haystack before breakfast. Breakfast? She was carrying a tray… A sweet, warm, buttery, fresh-baked aroma energised Harry in a way that no Christmas greeting ever would. Hot Welsh-cakes and honey, and a jug of fresh milk - probably unpasteurised, probably from a sheep… who cared? Hunger made for tolerance.

Holding the cake at arm's length as dripping, melted butter oozed onto his fingers, Harry wandered to the doorway and leaned on the frame, looking out. The countryside was gone. Fields, trees, the standing stones, had all disappeared. It was a complete white-out, as far as the eye could see - and that was at least a yard!

"You wanted a white Christmas!" he called to Hermione.

"Is it snowing? How lovely!" She joined him at the door. "But, Harry, that's…"

Fog. It swaddled the barn like a clinging, grey-white wad of damp tissues, jammed into the pockets of the valley.

"Sorry. Best I could do at short notice." He smiled a pale truce.

"Come on, sleepies! Eat up. Then it's off to the farmhouse with you. Get you cleaned up." Hestia bustled off to the lambing fold, warbling a familiar tune - Nos Galan - though the words were Welsh gobbledygook to the listening pair.

"_Oer yw'r gwr sy'n methu caru,_

_Fa la la la la la ……_"

She came back, wiping wet hands down the front of her parka.

"And then…

"_I'r helbulus oer yw'r biliau,_

_Fa la la la la la la la la…_

_Sydd yn dyfod…"_

"Then what?" Harry raised his voice. One Welsh singer was formidable enough. He imagined an entire choir, and felt utterly intimidated.

"Then we'll go." Hestia stopped singing and came up to him, putting a kind, leathery arm around his shoulders. "They've found him, Harry _bach_. They're taking him to St. Mungo's now. We're to meet them there in an hour."

"Why not now? Is he alright? Why St Mungo's? Why not Hogwarts?"

"Oh, so many questions! London's closer, that's all. He's not exactly _well_, but Potions these days can work wonders… We've got to give them time to take effect, Harry. Besides, they wouldn't let you into a hospital like that - all covered in straw and whatnot."

Harry glanced down at himself. The _whatnot_ was rather whiffy…

X X X

The hospital reception was as crowded as always, the row of rickety chairs already fully occupied with the first casualties of Christmas. Once again the shiny white Christmas trees, decked with their magical snow and icicles, stood in every corner, their gold stars gleaming. Harry thought back to the previous Christmas when he had been visiting Mr Weasley - this was getting to be an annual event!

By the Enquiries desk a group of wizards and witches appeared to be arguing with a flabby-looking, lime-green-clad Healer. Even from the back, Harry recognised the long, silvery white locks of Professor Dumbledore and, next to him, a tall, bald-headed figure - Shacklebolt.

Dumbledore's polite but authoritative remonstrations were cutting no ice with the Healer, who repeatedly shook his head and was on the point of leaving when the Headmaster caught sight of Harry.

"Ah, Harry. Your arrival is most opportune. It appears that hospital regulations do not allow us to visit Severus yet - only members of his immediate family are allowed to see him. And that, my boy, means **you**!"

Harry was still not accustomed to hearing his relationship discussed so openly and so bluntly.

"Hospital visitor policy has been considerably tightened following an unfortunate security lapse last year," the Healer commented humourlessly. "And also since one of our long term inmates starting issuing invitations to public book-signings on the premises. We cannot have our wards besieged by screaming admirers. This is a hospital, not a fan convention."

_Lockhart was still on form then!_

The Healer - his badge identified him as Linctus Dollop - drew Harry to one side, leaving Dumbledore and the others looking extremely put out.

"You are Harry Snape?"

"Um, no…yes…sort of…" The surname threw him. And he was too anxious to be bothering with formalities. The Healer, who obviously would have preferred to be at home spending Christmas with his own family, rather than on duty fending off the massed staff of the country's leading wizard school, tapped his clipboard impatiently.

"Yes or no? Are you or are you not the son of Severus Snape?"

"**Yes!** How is he? Can I see him?"

Dollop referred to his clipboard again, flicking over to a couple of pages of charts, then, in an impersonal tone he read out:

"Severus Snape was admitted in the early hours of this morning in a state of collapse, suffering from exposure and indeterminate spell damage…" He consulted the notes yet again, summarising: "…on further examination…er…partial thickness burns; percentage within tolerable margins… minor abrasions, bruising… evidence of smoke inhalation – localised inflammation of throat and trachea – I've prescribed Potions for that - airway no longer obstructed… Core temperature…"

Here he glanced up at Harry with an expression that might even have been taken for medical interest.

"On admission your father was severely hypothermic - it was quite a magical challenge to stabilise him. However…" He was running his finger down the list, pausing only where a tick or a comment had been added. "Hmm… minimal cyanosis; chest clear – no pneumonia… There. No cause for concern, except…"

"Spell damage?" Harry asked. The very phrase chilled him. Dollop regarded the boy with something like embarrassment.

"Ah, actually no. On investigation that proved to be fully reversible. There will be no lasting effects on that score. The problem is more one of - er - _attitude_." He swallowed the last word as if it were something sour and very salty. For the first time since McGonagall's desperate Floo message, Harry felt his lips tweak into a genuine smile.

"Attitude?"

The man was running a nervous, fleshy tongue around his gums and awkwardly fingering the slack wattle on his neck. Harry could well understand that Snape might find this man obnoxious, and would probably not conceal the fact.

"Yes. Since regaining consciousness, Professor Snape has been less than co-operative… You must appreciate, Mr. er… that your father is suffering from extreme exhaustion and it is essential that he _rest_… perhaps you could have a word with him? I have given him a mild _Oblivio_ to take the edge off his anxiety - help him to relax and forget the trauma - but he keeps blocking the spell. It has been necessary to entrust his wand to Security for, er, 'safe-keeping'. He insists that he leave at once. Which is medically inadvisable. I could not authorise discharge until he has been under observation for a minimum of twenty-four hours. And, another thing, Mr Snape, if you could ask all but the immediate family to restrict their visits to the designated times…"

"Which Ward?" asked Harry, not making any promises.

"Fourth Floor. He has been moved to a private room for the, er, benefit of the other patients… Room 406."

Relieved - if Snape was already upsetting people he couldn't be too ill - Harry walked back over to the staff who were still waiting crossly by the desk. Dumbledore was deep in reminiscent conversation with the portrait of Dilys Derwent - she agreed wholeheartedly that St. Mungo's was not the place it had been in her day.

Professor McGonagall, her face a great deal less molten than the last time Harry had seen it, was scathing in her condemnation.

"Rules and regulations! Call it a hospital! The place has been over-run by bureaucrats. Call themselves Healers? Half of them couldn't diagnose _Dragon Pox_ if it leaped out and singed them! Officious quill-quibblers! Oh, Harry - how are you? How's Severus? That unpleasant person refused to 'divulge any information'."

The critical tone could not hide her concern. Hearing it, Harry felt a tug of gratitude, affection even, towards his Head of House.

"He's alright," he told her, "but he has to rest now. Perhaps you could all come back later?"

"Well, why didn't they just say so? Port-key, Albus!" She tapped Dumbledore on the shoulder. "Is Miss Granger coming back with us?"

Harry looked across the foyer to where Hermione was standing and chatting - to Neville Longbottom.

"No, I think she'll wait. It looks like we'll be spending Christmas here…"

X X X

The door to room 406 was closed. They wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had a _Locking Charm_ on it as well, to prevent Snape from absconding. Though, if the Potions master were determined to discharge himself and leave, no mere medi-wizard would be able to stop him.

Hermione and Neville were standing in the corridor. There was something decidedly furtive about the way they were loitering outside Snape's door.

"Did Harry say how long he'd be?" whispered Neville.

"No. He said either to wait for him here, or to go in and keep Snape busy 'til he gets back."

Harry's actual words had been, "Stall him. Talk about sheep! That should send him to sleep. Or, give him that motherly stuff you do about, 'Girls know best' and 'It's all for your own good'… It gets me every time!"

Hermione knew she would die rather than 'mother' Professor Snape.

Neville was fidgeting to go. His grandmother had arranged to meet him outside by the entrance to _Purge and Dowse_. He had smuggled Hermione upstairs, by-passing the security check by claiming that she had come to visit Alice and Frank, but now he was worried that Mrs Longbottom Snr would raise the alarm. Tonks, however, had collared him earlier and asked him to deliver a message to Snape.

"I can tell him," Hermione had offered. But Neville was dutifully bent on fulfilling the commission himself. He gave his watch another panicky glance.

"We'll have to go in and risk it," he said, reminding himself he was a Gryffindor and therefore inherently brave…

"_Alohomora!_" Hermione murmured hesitantly, and Neville turned the handle…

x x x

The soot and ashes may have been washed away, but stark evidence of the fire remained: Snape's hair and eyebrows were singed; beneath the pink weals of magically healed burns, his face had a sickly, bluish pallor, as though the inhaled smoke were working its way out through the pores of his very skin. The bruising graze of a spell-track scored one cheek with a blistered, grey furrow. Both hands were bandaged. He was lying, propped up with pillows at an angle to reduce the pressure on his lungs, his breathing wheezy and painful. Despite the heat in the hospital room, he still had the hunched, tense look of a man chilled to the depths of his soul.

"Oh, Sir…!" If it had been Remus lying there, hurt and miserable, Hermione would have rushed to comfort him. But how, where, did one begin to be _nice_ to Professor Snape? She didn't know what to say.

Four days had been quite long enough to allow Neville's terror of Snape to resurface. At the sight of the Potions master, he relapsed into stuttering incoherence.

"Sorry, er, Sir, but my gran's outside. We're not supposed to be here at all, Sir… but she gets right narky if I keep her waiting. And they're only letting in _immediate family_."

Snape regarded them both without enthusiasm.

"Merlin forbid!" he rasped. Then, "Where's Harry?" His voice was raw with the effects of the smoke, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

Hermione, who had been striving to keep her gaze fixed on his face, and not to let it drop to the sight of his bare chest visible through the unbuttoned, open-necked nightshirt, leaped at an excuse to slip out into the corridor.

"I'll see if I can hurry him up, Sir."

The inviolable Snape persona was so inextricably associated in her mind with the fierce, black, buttoned-up exterior, the swirling cloak, the tangible barrier of his untouchable _image_, that the barest glimpse of pale skin, of humanity, made her uncomfortable.

Neville was already almost puce with mortification. His presence in the sick room seemed an unforgivable familiarity. He stammered to put his intrusion into context, made no sense, and halted in confusion and humiliation. It was up to Snape to instigate a conversation. Much to Neville's amazement, his first words were not 'Get out!'

"Your parents?" he croaked, keeping his sentences to a minimum. The simple question rescued Neville.

"Yes, Sir. They're fine. Thank you, Sir. I think they enjoy Christmas - all the decorations and everything. They like that. My Mum likes unwrapping things."

_Why was he talking to this hateful man about his parents?_

"Sir, Tonks asked me to give you a message. I don't know what it means, Sir. She said, "The elf has the lizard" and "The tail will grow back". Does that sound right, Sir? Is it a code? Sir? _Sir_? Oh, 'eck!"

For Snape had dissolved back into his pillows with a little moan, his eyes shut, his breaths dragging in shallow gasps. Dismayed, Neville took a tremulous step nearer the bed. He was already wondering how he would explain away killing off the Potions master, accidentally, so soon after poisoning him - it was beginning to look like a vendetta - when Snape sniffed and opened his eyes. Neville automatically passed him a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet.

"Did I get it wrong again, Sir? I'm sure that's what Tonks said… But I forget things sometimes, Sir, I know I do."

"That's fine, Longbottom. Trust your instincts, boy," Snape whispered.

"I could call someone if you're not feeling so good, Sir, - the ward sister?" Neville suggested - he knew his way round the system at St Mungo's fairly well after all these years.

"Absolutely not!" Faint but emphatic. "It was…I'm… I'm just tired," Snape admitted.

"Right. Well, I'd best be off." Neville, mission accomplished, shifted uncertainly, feeling that circumstances required him to say something _uplifting_. "I'll see you next term then, Sir." Not exactly the most encouraging words to speed an invalid's recovery, but they were the best he could do. He backed out of the door as if quitting an audience with a capricious Eastern potentate. It was all he could do not to bow with relief at escaping unscathed.

Hermione was pacing the corridor.

"I can't find Harry anywhere," she complained. "He said he'd be only a minute. Where's he got to? Oh, bye Neville. Thanks for getting me in. If you see Harry on your way down, tell him to _hurry up_. Oh, no!"

Seeing a lime green inquisition heading in her direction, she ducked back into room 406.

"Harry's coming, Sir. He just got held up," she lied.

"Tell him to retrieve my wand and my possessions from that citrus-coloured quack," he instructed hoarsely, wincing. His hand moved to his neck, massaging his scorched throat. "Tell him I wish to leave. Now." He pushed himself upright. For one awful moment Hermione thought he was going to throw back the covers and get out of bed - she baulked at the idea that he might need help - it was far too personal. He might be Harry's dad, but he was still Professor Snape. She couldn't skip all six degrees of separation in one night!

He stopped, his chest heaving as he fought to suppress a cough and get his breathing back under control. Hermione watched him. Where did he think he was going to go, anyway? To the burned out remains of Snape Cottage? To the Manor? Back to school? He didn't look strong enough to Apparate into the next room, let alone all the way back to Hogwarts. She picked up a raspberry pink phial from the cabinet top and read the label.

"You're not supposed to talk, Sir. Gosh, this potion's strong stuff - 'Benzoin, Kanuka, Taget, Salamander Blood…'," She skimmed through the ingredients. "…but it won't work if you don't let it…" Then she checked the time. "You can have another dose now, if you like."

He nodded weakly, not wanting to risk speaking again so soon. Acutely embarrassed, Hermione measured out a spoonful and lifted it to Snape's lips. She prayed that Harry would be quick and get back soon. If her hand was trembling, she tried not to show it, not to spill the _Soothing Potion_.

"You mustn't speak, and you need to rest, Sir. Come on, lie down." She was taking charge, easing him gently back down into the bed. "It's for your own good, Sir."

Suddenly she bit her tongue - Harry was right! She _did_ say that! Was she really so bossy and predictable? He'd got one thing wrong though - she hadn't been using it as a stalling tactic. It had been… Oh, no, this was precisely what she _hadn't_ wanted to happen. She felt the stress of the last twenty-four hours brimming in her eyes.

"We were - I mean, Harry was - _we were_ so worried about you…" she faltered.

Snape surveyed her in mute surprise. He was accustomed to reducing his students to tears, but tears _on his behalf_ were something new and strange. His eyes flicked over to the box of tissues, and the girl took one with an apologetic, self-conscious smile.

"Sorry, Sir."

x x x

There was a scrabbly scratching at the door. It nudged open, and a white, spiky shape filled the doorway, forcing itself, prickle by snowy prickle into the room, the branches pinging through the opening like the bristles of a bottle-brush in a narrow-necked bottle.

"Whew! Got stuck in the lift!" Harry gasped. "Wedged in. Pinched this from the foyer and then went up and down about five times before I could get it out. Should have used a _Shrinking Spell_ really… Can't have Christmas without a tree! What do you think? Cheers the place up, doesn't it?"

Harry propped the Christmas tree at a wonky angle at the end of Snape's bed and stood back to admire it. Hermione's initial irritation was swamped by a flood of compassion: _this is all too much for him to handle; the only way he can deal with it is to make it into a joke…_

Harry moved round the bed to assess the tree from Snape's viewpoint, tilting his head sideways to counteract the camber. It was the first time he had come anywhere close to his father.

"They said you were alright?" he said quietly, making it a question, searching Snape's eyes for reassurance.

Snape opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione shushed him with a stern shake of her head and a 'tut' worthy of Madam Pomfrey. So instead, his bandaged fingers moved stiffly, and Hermione realised he was signing a reply. That skill had its uses! Harry concentrated, following the movements, a blush of understanding warming his face. But the white gauze separated them with its sterile shield. Hermione was convinced that, but for the bandages, Harry would have taken Snape's hand. She waited for him to slip his arm around his father's shoulders… the mirage of an embrace shimmered in the hot, hospital air…

Then he was off again.

"Wait! There's more!" he exclaimed, dashing out. In seconds he was back, almost hidden behind the dome of an enormous, silver salver. He paraded proudly into the room like the head chef at a State banquet.

"Christmas Dinner with all the trimmings! The works!" he announced, with as flamboyant a bow as he could manage without spilling the lot. He'd been looking forward to this. He looked so happy it was a shame to spoil it. Hermione frowned doubtfully.

"But, Harry, Professor Snape can hardly swallow. He won't be allowed to eat that…"

Harry winked at her.

"It's OK. I've checked. They want him to build his strength up. Ta-da!" With a flourish he whisked away the silver lid to reveal three steaming bowls.

"What is it?"

"Chicken soup! Merry Christmas!"

**End of Story. Aaaah… Hope you liked it**. Went a little soft at the end, and I think Snape got off quite lightly this time, (poor man always gets beaten up somehow in my stories) but I didn't want to spoil his Christmas completely!

**Thank you so much** to everyone who has read and reviewed. Pity you can't see my illustrated version - In my own copy I have pictures of places like Spinster's Rock and the Three Men of Trellech, and, of course, Bonxies …

So, what's next? Maybe I'll get around to loading Lost Perspective 4. It's about time!


End file.
